Ice and Fire: Total War
by Trap3r
Summary: The Others, long thought dead by the races of men, have returned to eradicate all mortal races. The Dragonborn hero of Skyrim, Anslaf Delmar, known as the Blackwolf, must now unite the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and find and train the 'Azor Ahai' of prophecy. He will need allies from both Tamriel and this new land, for there are those who would love nothing more than total war.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Nirn. The home of various sentient races and nations. Its peoples are capable of great compassion, and great violence. From the Empire and it's legions that protect the overwhelming majority of the continent of Tamriel, to the feudal and squabbling Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, and the city-states of Essos. The dangers facing the mortals are many, coming from both within their own ranks, and from without. One such threat, that should have never been forgotten, has been turned into myth and folklore, dismissed by the world as fables, myths, or long extinct.

A fool's sure mark is to dismiss anything that falls outside his individual experience as an impossibility.

For eight thousand years, they waited. Some say they are demons, Daedra, of Ice and cold. Others are not so sure. Whatever the case may be, they waited, patiently planning their vengeance against the races of men and mer. And their timing could not be more perfect, for the world stands upon the edge of a knife. Westeros stands on the brink of a devastating civil war. Two mighty superpowers in Tamriel vie for supremacy in a cold war, while several regional powers turn a blind eye. The Free Cities are fortifying their defenses, as one of the largest Dorthraki _Khalessars_ in history, over forty thousand strong, gathers under the leadership of the fierce Khal Drogo. And Akavir remains oddly silent.

They are coming.

They are eager.

And when they arrive, there will be nothing short of total war.


	2. The Blackwolf

**Hey, Trap3r here! As I said before, I'm putting Serenity of the Force aside to work on this story that's been fermenting in my head for quite a while now. I got it a while back while reading similar stories on FanFiction and thought. "Hey, why not add my own?" So, here is my little piece. And yes, George R. R. Martin is probably frothing at the mouth because I'm writing this. Oh well.**

* * *

Anslaf I

13 First Seed 4E 204/ 298 AL: Lakeview Manor, Skyrim

The birds outside Lakeview Manor chirped as the sun rose over the Velothi Mountains to the east, signaling a new day. Anslaf Delmar woke up groggly, sitting up and stretching as he yawned. He looked over to his right, where his wife of two years, Serana, slept peacefully. He smiled, and leaned over and kissed his wife on the cheek, then got up to get ready for the day. He went over to the wardrobe and slipped on a pair of pants, an undershirt, and a pair of shoes, and went to check on his children in the other room. There, his two beautiful infant twins, Anna and Aldrich, slept soundly, barely making a sound, save from a very tired sounding yawn from Aldrich. He didn't notice his wife slide up alongside him until she rested her head on his shoulder.

She always was as silent as a cat.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" She softly purred into his ear, while her hands gripped each other around his chest.

"As beautiful as the mother who bore them." He said back, kissing his wife's ebony hair while caressing her right shoulder.

"And as handsome as the father who gave seed to them." She replied. It was true, the twins both inherited their father's dirt brown hair, and their mother's emerald green eyes. At that moment, little Anna woke up, and was apparently hungry, for she began crying. Her brother must have sensed her, for he began to do the same.

"Well duty calls." Serana sighed as she went over to the cribs and picked the twins up, one in each arm.

Anslaf flashed her a quick smile before heading out. On his way out the door, he noticed Lydia coming off shift, her eyes baggy, and heading off to her bed, while Calder came and relived her.

"Is Erik already outside?" Anslaf asked Calder.

"Aye. He's been working on his sword work, my Thane." The red-haired man replied

"Really, how's he been doing?" Anslaf said, while watching his apprentice strike a dummy target with his Skyforge-made steel claymore, a gift from Eoruland Grey-Mane.

"He's been doing better and better. Actually managed to nearly best Rayya in a practice duel." Calder pointed out.

"She's one of our best swords!" Anslaf exclaimed, feeling a measure of pride for Erik, who had come a long way from the farm-bound youth he knew from two years ago. A grin crept on to his face, and he went back inside. A moment later, he reappeared, brandishing his ebony longsword.

"Hey, Erik!" He called out to the boy of seventeen, who stopped hitting the practice dummy.

"Yeah?" He called back to the older man of twenty-five, sweat on his brow, covered in a loose shirt, pants, and boots.

"Why don't you try swinging your blade at a live target?" The elder man challenged amusingly, his sword already in a low ready position. Erik grinned. "Alright, old man. Be careful, wouldn't want you to break a hip."

"Careful, young one." Anslaf playfully reprimanded, while they began circling each other. "This old dog still has a few tricks left in him."

Erik made the first move, swinging his claymore in an upward-right arc. Anslaf quickly blocked the strike, then thrusted his longsword, which Erik parried and carried out a spinning slash, which Anslaf rolled out of the way. They both got back into their ready positions.

"Your skills are improving." Anslaf complimented. "A year ago I would have disarmed you by now."

"Thank you." Erik said back, his pride now soaring. The two duelists took one step toward another, but before they could continue, a familiar roar pierced the sky.

The roar of a Dragon.

Quickly, Anslaf began scanning the skies, a little bit frustrated that a Dragon wanted to show up when he had settled down in his new family life as a substance farmer. His frustration quickly went away when he saw who it was.

"Odahviing, _dii wuth fahdon_. What news do you bring from the _Monahven_?" He asked the red dragon, whom he had captured and released two years ago during his quest to find and destroy Alduin, the World-Eater. He then noticed Odahviing's demeanor. He was alert, worried even.

"Odahviing, what's wrong? Has something happened to Paarthurnax?" Anslaf asked, fearing that Delphine might have broken her oath to him after all and set out to kill the old dragon.

"_Niid, Dovahkiin_." The dragon replied, although his tone sounded urgent. "But he has requested your presence, and yours alone. Only you are to come with me." Odahviing urged.

Anslaf sighed, unhappy he was going to be taken away from his family for a few days, if not longer, depending on the severity of this. "Let me tell Serana about this." He finally stated, after mulling it over. He went inside the manor, and after a few moments, came back out, and fitted in his custom ebony black wolf armor that gave him his nickname, "Blackwolf", given to him by Euroland after he and Erik had saved the Harbinger's life at Knifepoint ridge. He also had his ebony crossbow and shield slung over his back, his sword sheathed on his right, and his dagger on the left. He mounted Odahviing, and looked at Erik.

"Help her out while I'm gone." Anslaf simply stated, before Odaviing lifted off, and toward the great mountain to the north east.

* * *

It was bitterly cold on the mountain peak, doubly so with the wind. That being said, it was a good thing Anslaf was of Nordic blood, able to keep warm in such conditions wearing only a simple black fur cloak along with his armor, whereas other men would have to wear heavy furs and clothes just too even eke out a survival. But the cold wasn't on his mind at this moment; it was why Paarthurnax had summoned him up here in the first place.

"_Drem Yol Lok, Dovahkiin_. I am sorry to have summoned you here so suddenly, but the matter is most dire." The Grandmaster of the Greybeards said, his voice lined with worry and trepidation.

"_Krosis, mid fahdon_, but what threat is it of you speak?" Anslaf asked, then added almost fearfully, "Has Alduin returned?"

"_Niid_. But this is a grave threat. Tell me, what do you know of Westeros?"

"Westeros? You mean the continent to the east of Tamriel?" Anslaf was just as educated as anybody else on geography. The Empire and the Seven Kingdoms had long had good ties, unlike the cold relations Tamriel had with its west-bound neighbor, Akavir. The reason could've been because the two continents sat closer together, almost as close as the distance between Westeros and Essos.

"Yes. Ages ago, in that continent, back when the dov ruled _Tazokaan_, men and elves had settled there. Prosperous and peaceful was their rule, until the day Molag Bal decided to seduce a group of the mortals into his servitude. In exchange for their _sille_, he promised them _lot sulyek_, great power. Their skins and eyes became the palest shade of blue, their hides became like armor, their weapons hardened ice, and they began to practice the foul art of necromancy. They were elves and men no longer; they became only known as 'the Others'. They waged war against the joorre, hoping to claim the continent for themselves, but they underestimated their resolve. The Atmorans of that time, called the First Men by the Westerosi, fought back with righteousness and fury, and drove them back to the northern half of _Westsaan_, before the one they call the Builder erected a mighty wall, inhumed with magic wards, to keep the Others out of the realm."

"Do you think the Others are returning?" Anslaf inquired.

"With certainty." The old dragon replied. "I have flown to the continent when not training my fellow dov, and I have seen them, and the one who leads them. They are gathering an army of spiders and draugr, to invade the Seven Kingdoms, and ultimately the rest of the world, in order to claim Nirn for their _vul in_, dark master. And their timing could not be more perfect."

"What do you mean?" the Nord asked.

"The Westerosi are divided as of now. Tensions are mounting in the Seven Kingdoms, as the King is increasingly blind to the threats around him, both without and within. Their force for the Wall, the Night's Watch, as they are called, are undermanned and undersupplied, and ignored."

"Well, doesn't this sound familiar?" Anslaf laughed bitterly. "What do I need to do?" He asked his old friend.

"You must go to Westeros and do two things. First, you must convince them of the threat. I have no doubt you can convince at least some of them. Secondly, you must find a figure of _qoustiid_, prophecy, written by the Valaryian dovah, Vedkreinyol, named 'The Azor Ahai', the prince who was promised. It reads 'There will come a day after a long summer when the stars bleed and the cold breath of darkness falls heavy on the world. In this dread hour a warrior shall draw from the fire a burning sword. And that sword shall be Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes, and he who clasps it shall be Azor Ahai come again, and the darkness shall flee before him.'

"Well, not as vague as other prophecies I've heard." Anslaf stated sarcastically. "But if I am going to Westeros, I need allies, both without and within. And if things go south, like I expect them to, I'll need an army behind my back." He thought for a moment. "I'll get ready and head out in for Westeros in a months' time. I'll get whatever friends in the guilds I have to meet me at Lakeview. And I'm going to the Imperial City."

* * *

**One Week Later, Imperial City, Cyrodiil**

"This is outrageous! Why should we send an army to foreign soils when we have the Thalmor at our door?" the Orc councilman yelled at the top of his lungs. The Elder Council, the legislative body of the Empire, was in special session today, at the request of the Dragonborn and Emperor Antonius Mede I.

"Councilor Groznach brings up a valid point, Dragonborn." The thirty-three year old Emperor stated. "We can't send a large army or fleet anywhere without risking weakening our defenses across the border."

"And the Thalmor would most certainly know of a larger army leaving Cyrodiil within the fortnight." General Tullius added in. Since the aftermath of the Skyrim Civil War, he was promoted to Supreme Commander of the Imperial Military.

"How many available troops do we have?" Anslaf asked the council, praying for at least an auxiliary regiment.

"Not many." The Imperial Grand Battlemage, a middle-aged female Breton named Cacia Pierre stated. "Like the others have stated, most of our strength is currently preparing for Dominion attack. Especially since our Emperor here decided to rip up the Concordat in front of Grand Lord Ondalrith himself." Anslaf had heard about that. Apparently Titus Mede II had not been the fool that the Dominion and others had taken him to be, and had spent the thirty years he had to endure as a supposed Thalmor lackey rebuilding the Imperial Army and secretly constructing a huge new fleet at the Iliac Bay. After Titus' death, his son Antonius had continued to do so, along with trying, and succeeding, to get Hammerfell back into the fold. Now after thirty years, the Imperial Military was actually above the operational strength it had at the beginning of the Great War, and very near what they had before the Oblivion Crisis. Still, it came as no surprise that the Dominion was doing the same, fortifying their border defenses in Elswyer and Valenwood while increasing the naval patrols in the Summerset Sea. And on top of that, apparently the Emperor had invited the Grand Lord over to the Imperial City for dinner, and there took out the official copy of the White-Gold Concordat, and ripped it to shreds in front of Ondalrith. It was small wonder that Antonius and the Council wanted most of the Army to remain in Tamriel; two superpowers now stood at the brink of all out conflict.

"Nothing you can spare at all?" He repeated. Antonius thought for a moment, then began to talk with his Redguard Chancellor, Iman, and the rest of the Council, in hushed tones. Finally, after much deliberating amongst themselves, they fell silent, and Anslaf awaited the verdict, which the Emperor delivered.

"It has come to our decision that we will help you in your quest, Dragonborn. But we cannot offer a truly significant fighting force either. We can only spare one legion and two auxiliary regiments in your cause. The rest will be tied up with the threat of another war with the Dominion." Anslaf was elated.

"That's better than I had hoped for. So who can you spare?"

"We can spare the Ninth Legion, _Legio IX Bretonnia_, under the command of Legate Decius Julius Maximus. And the two auxiliary regiments attached to him, so you'll have an additional fifteen thousand men in your little party. " Tullius stated gruffly. "Congratulations." He said as an afterthought.

Anslaf stopped for a moment to consider this particularly harrowing thought. Fifteen thousand men and women, all volunteers, were going to be told to pack up out of their castles and fortresses and camps, travel about two and a half thousand miles on twenty-five Imperial frigates along with the Dragonborn and his entourage of twenty, a trip that took a month and a half, to potentially fight and die in a foreign land quite possibly no one cared for, and never getting to see home again. But he needed these men, he was practically diving into the unknown here, and what you didn't know often killed you. The Emperor interrupted his thought process.

"Then it's settled then. In the name of the Dragon Throne, I hereby authorize Anslaf Delmar, known as the Blackwolf, the use of the Ninth Legion and its auxiliary regiments, in his quest." He turned to his aide. "Send a messenger bird to Legate Maximus in Fort Picard with his new marching orders. Tell him he is to meet the Dragonborn with his men at the Iliac Bay dockyards in a fortnight from tomorrow. Send another bird to Admiral Flavius Crassus at those dockyards, tell him to dispatch a naval squadron of twenty-five ships exactly, enough to feed and hold fifteen thousand men for a two month journey. Godspeed to you and your quest dragonborn, and carry the blessings of the Elder Council." Chancellor Iman stood up. "Councilors, this session is now adjourned. _Gloria Imperium_!" he stated.

"_Gloria Imperium!_"

Anslaf walked out the great doors and through the city streets. As he walked toward Odahviing, he sighed, and mumbled out half-glad, half sullenly.

"_Gloria Imperium_."

* * *

**Aaaaaaaaand, we are off! Yeah, I wanted to keep this somewhat realistic, since obliviously they aren't going to let him make off with about four legions (of about 5,400 legionaries on average, 6,000 is the max.) and eight 5,000 man auxiliary regiments, due to increased tensions with the Thalmor. That being said, even a smaller, 15,000 force of Imperial soldiers has a distinct advantage against anything the 7Ks can throw at them, namely better tactics, training, and finer quality equipment. But I digress. Next Chapter, Anslaf and his crew of misfits meet the battle hardened Decius and his Ninth Legion, and set off to the land of political games and rampant corruption.**


	3. The Legate of the Ninth

**Hello, again! This chapter is going to focus on the veteran Legate Decius Julius Maximus and the Ninth Legion. Now, if your wandering why I don't use the term 'General' for him, here's why; Legates, in the Roman era, were the commanders of the legions themselves. A General was usually in command of two or more legions at a time. I guess Bethesda wanted to throw some familiar terms our way, but I'm a sucker for Roman accuracy. Anyway, here it is.**

* * *

Decius I

27 First Seed, 4E 204/298 AL, Iliac Bay Dockyards, Wayrest, High Rock.

* * *

Legate Decius Julius Maximus, was by all rights, one of the most battle-hardened commanders in the entire Empire, an excellent tactician and a keen strategist. His Ninth Legion, which was currently standing in formation with the Second and Fourth Auxiliary Regiments on the parade field, was one of the best in the Empire, led by veterans of the Great War and the Stormcloak Rebellion, and gruelingly trained to the point of near perfection.

So why was this up-jumped 'Blackwolf' getting permission from the Emperor to take him and his Legion away to the ass end of the world when the big war was, almost certainly, about to kick off between his beloved Empire and those barbarians clad in elven armor and false courtesies?

Honestly, Decius didn't know, and frankly it did no use bitching about it, either. His orders had come from the Emperor and the Supreme Commander themselves. So all he had to do now was carry out his orders, and sail with the Dragonborn to Westeros to act as backup in case things went to Oblivion in a hand basket.

And they always did, too. First rule of warfare; no battle plan ever survives contact with the enemy.

His second-in-command, Prefect Herman Adler, a big, grey-haired brute of a Nord whose no-nonsense personality and strict disciplinarian views helped shape up new recruits who didn't know one end of a _gladius_ from another into highly trained and disciplined soldiers, snapped him out of his thoughts.

"Sir, the Dragonborn and his entourage are here." He said, looking over Decius' shoulder. Decius turned and saw a group of fifteen well-armed men and women, led by a Nord in ebony armor that was modeled after the style of the Companions.

"Ah, so you must be the Blackwolf." Decius stated as he walked up to the man and took his measure of him as he shook his hand. His grip was firm, indicating he was a professional, and more importantly to him, not some effeminate wannabe noble. His eyes were of the deepest blue, piercing, yet friendly.

"Legate Maximus, a pleasure to meet you." The Blackwolf spoke, a slight northern tilt to his accent. "Please, though. Call me Anslaf."

"Anslaf." Decius nodded, then let go off his hand and faced his troops. He nodded to Herman, who yelled in his gruff, Nordic accent.

"Legion!"

Echoing cries of "Cohort!" among the tribunes could be heard a split second after.

"Atten-TION!"

Immediately, every legionary and auxiliary snapped to attention as one, having drilled this over and over countless times. A large cry amongst the ranks went out, loud enough to shake the buildings.

"ANVIL!"

Herman then performed an about face, and saluted Decius when he came up to him.

"The legion is yours to address sir." He said as Decius returned the salute.

"At ease." He commanded, as his men sort of relaxed from the rigid position of attention into the less rigid position of at ease. Decius, the fifty-two year old legate with tan skin and black hair that was starting to grey, spoke, clearly, crisply, and concisely.

"Men, we are about to embark in a few hours on a trip to Westeros, aboard a few of Admiral Crassus' ships that he let us borrow. I know not what awaits us in this foreign land, for none of us have ever been to Westeros. That being said, our mission is not to combat any enemy as of yet. Our mission is however to act as backup to the Dragonborn in case things turn sour over there. I know none of you particularly want to go to some backwater kingdom on the other side of the ocean. Believe me, I feel as if were better off here, too. But we have a duty to the Emperor, to the Divines, and to the Empire, to aid the Dragonborn in his quest. I hope most, if not all of you, have made your goodbyes and farewells to your loved ones, for there isn't going to be any fanfare for your departure, nor for our return, if we ever do. And if we do, we'll be most likely facing another war. That being said, I'd rather have you here, brave legionaries and auxiliaries to a man and woman, than sticking it out alone. For if it does come to battle, I know you will stand alongside me, fighting the enemy with courage and honor. Now, the Dragonborn would like to speak to you."

Decius stepped back to allow Anslaf to speak, while paying close attention to what he had to say.

"I am Anslaf Delmar, Thane of Whiterun, and the Dragonborn. I have battled innumerable foes, such as Dragons, vampires, monsters, and those pointy-ear pricks we know as Thalmor." A few laughs were heard among the soldiers. "Like Legate Decius here, I know not of what awaits us in this land, but from what my colleagues told me here, they are socially backwards and suspicious of foreigners. I know that none of you particularly are keen on going to a new place, but I will not step in and tell you what to do; that is the job of your commanders, I'm just there to make sure they stop playing their political games long enough to tackle the real threat. And if it includes us making a show of force, then by Akatosh's balls, we'll give those scum suckers Oblivion!" A few hoots and hollers went up, as Ansalf turned it back to Decius.

"Men, you are dismissed. Prepare to board your asses and equipment on those boats. We leave in two hours. Fall out!"

The soldiers fell out of formation and started to set on the task at hand, getting everything ready and packed up to head out onto the ships.

* * *

Two months later…

* * *

The twenty-five ship naval squadron, made up of ten galleons, ten frigates, and five ships-of-the-line, were now past Tamriel, and in the middle of the Pandomaic Ocean, still about half a month away from their destination, a medium-sized island about a hundred miles west from the coast of northern Westeros. Decius was on the Admiral's flagship, the largest ship in the fleet, with a century of his vanguard cohort and all of the Dragonborn's entourage, whom he had gotten to know well in the span of two months. There were his housecarls, seven of them in total, a few members of the College of Winterhold, about five members of the Thieves' Guild he had taken along for intelligence gathering and 'in case we need to steal an enemy's plans', as he put it, and one fellow from the Dark Brotherhood he had brought along, a young Breton female with the unusual name of Syrenne, to advise him on the nature of any assassins' guilds they might run across. Decius honestly didn't mind the presence of the thieves, as long as the kept their hands to themselves. The assassin though…

Decius had brought it up to Anslaf before, who told him that the Brotherhood had owed him a few favors after he had paid the bail for Syrenne after she tried to kill him. So Decius had let it slide. That didn't mean he had to trust her, however. Currently, Decius was going over plans in the ships war room with Anslaf, Syrenne, Colette Marence, Erik the Slayer, Prefect Alder, and Vladimir the Strong.

"Prefect, I need a status report on the men." Decius commanded.

"Sir, we are at one hundred percent capacity. Five and a half thousand legionaries, two thousand auxiliary heavy cavalry, two thousand auxiliary archers and crossbowmen, one thousand skirmishers, four thousand auxiliary infantry, five hundred support personnel, a dozen battlemages, and twenty scorpions are all accounted for. We are adequate on food, water, and we have winter equipment on hand."

"Good, good." He turned to the dark brown haired Breton. "What kind of threats are out there? Any assassin groups I should worry about?"

"Asides from the sloppy unprofessional, there is one group, thought their based in Braavos, on the northwest tip of Essos. They call themselves 'The Faceless Men'; I've dealt with a few of them before. They eschew their own identities, and are fanatical worshippers of Death, even we aren't all that crazy. That fanaticism works their way into their contracts, too. For example, for the life of a noble, they demand the life of your child as payment to Death. It's far cheaper in Westeros just to hire a good sized mercenary company instead of hiring them out." She replied, chewing over another thought before adding. "Oh, and they usually have a thing for making their kills look like accidents. They only will slit someone's throat if they are in a hurry or time is of the essence." Decius nodded, then turned to Colette, one of the wizards from the College. "Do you sense any magicka with this place? Do you know of any mages that reside in Westeros?"

Colette sighed. "Legate, the first thing to understand about this continent is that the magicka is present, but it's passive. Mostly from what I've heard, all of it is concentrated in the ward protection at the Wall. As for mages there, the answer is a flat no. People in that country have long forgotten to wield magic at all, and any sort of magical creature or Daedra is the stuff of myth and rumor to them. So I wouldn't worry about encountering any battlemages here; you'll have a distinct at advantage in that department." She finshed, allowing the middle-aged commander to turn to Anslaf. "Let's go over the plan one more time."

Anslaf nodded, then pointed to the map. "After you make landfall at the island, I'll take a small emergency schooner with my men, and make my way to this town here." He pointed a dot on the map which read "Barrowton", which was at the beginning of a small river that led into the bay. "From there, I'll get directions to the capital of the North." He moved his finger up to a large dot marked 'Winterfell', which sat on a major road labeled 'The Kingsroad" and was placed a few hundred miles south of the Wall. "There, I'll make contact with the local ruler of that province, who may or may not help me out due to their proximity with their northern borders."

"A well-conceived plan, but why not just go to the capital directly?" Herman asked.

"Because from what I've heard about the capital, it's a rat's nest of corrupt politicians and spies, and a few might think we're here to add Westeros into the Empire. So if we're going to accomplish anything, we need to start at the bottom of the food chain and work our way up, and not bash our way in like a battering ram." Adler nodded. Decius was beginning to admire Anslaf, he had some basic grasp on military stratagems and understood the utmost importance of gathering timely intelligence.

"Do we know who rules the northern half of the kingdom?" Decius inquired. Erik answered for the Dragonborn. "A man named Eddard Stark. His line is an old one, apparently, stretching back for nearly eight thousand years, back when our ancestors were still clubbing seals in Atmora. He has a wife, Catelyn, and five legitimate children: Robb, his eldest and heir, Sansa, his first daughter, Arya, his second daughter, Brandon, his second son and fourth eldest, and Rickon, his youngest at six years."

"Wait, wait, wait!" Decius interrupted, not sure if he heard this right. "You said five _legitimate _children. Are you meaning to tell me he has a child born out of wedlock?"

Anslaf gazed back down at the map. "Eddard Stark does have one bastard son, a man named Jon, at seventeen years of age. Since he's illegitimate, he was forced to take the last name of Snow, since all bastard surnames are apparently geographical here."

"Interesting." Decius mused as he rubbed his moustache. "Are you sure about this?"

"Positive."

"All right then. Gentlemen, I will await your signal, should it ever come to that. This meeting is adjorned." As they were leaving, Decius stopped the Dragonborn. "Your plan had better work." He simply said. The Dragonborn turned around, and gave a serious look.

"For all our sakes, I'm praying to every thrice-damned god there is it does."

* * *

**Two down, and a shitload more to go. Next up, we are going to finally see the Lord of Winterfell himself, and we can finally get this story really rolling. As it stands, Anslaf is gonna meet Eddard a few weeks before the canon events of AGOT/Season 1 kick off. Stay tuned.**

**ETA: Thank you, HaywireEagle, for pointing out a glaring flaw in this chapter.**


	4. The Lord of Winterfell

**And here it is! We finally get to begin to see the GoT characters! And we are starting to get into the main part of the story. Will I keep Eddard alive? We'll see! (Evil cackling). Anyway, here is good old Ned Stark.**

* * *

Eddard I

21 Mid-Year 4E 204/298 AL: Winterfell, the North.

War was easier than raising daughters.

Case in point, right now, with one of Sansa's and Arya's typical arguments about the latter's wild behavior.

"Father, she hardly acts like a proper lady!" Sansa complained. Robb struggled to suppress a laugh, while his best friend and Ned's ward, Theon Greyjoy, let out a small chuckle in apparent amusement at Sansa's frustration with her sister.

"I'd rather be a wild one than act like my head's in the clouds all the time, thank you very much!" Arya retorted. Ned's wife, Catelyn, sighed and rubbed her temples. Ned wanted to laugh at his children's antics, but he at least needed to act the part of stern father.

"Enough, you two. Sansa, apologize to your sister. Arya, please actually attend your lessons with Septa Mordane, you might learn something in order to become the lady of a castle." He reprimanded

"But Father! I don't want to be a lady! I want to ride horses and fight and lead my own armies and…" Arya began to complain.

"Arya…" Ned began, raising his eyebrow to indicate that the conversation was over.

"Fine." Arya pouted, then scampered away. Sansa let out a small smile in apparent victory, then made her way gracefully back to the Septa's lessons. After she had exited the room, Ned let out a heavy sigh.

"What are we going to do with her?" Catelyn said, shaking her head.

"She has much of the wolf's blood in her, Cat. She's just like my sister, Lyanna, when she was her age." Immediately a flood of memories came rushing back to Ned, things he'd rather had forgotten, but couldn't. His father's and older brother's execution at the hands of Aerys Targaryen, the Rebellion, and Lyanna at the Tower of Joy, laying in a bed in a pool of her own blood, and her last, dying words. The words that continued to haunt him to this day.

"_Promise me, Ned."_

"That maybe so..." Cat continued, shaking Ned out of his flashback. "…but she still needs to learn how to be a proper lady." She said as Ser Rodrick came into the room.

"Lord Stark, Lady Catelyn." He spoke with his crisp accent, before walking over to Ned. "My Lord, you need to see this." He said, a sense of confusion in his voice.

"Rodrick, what is it?" Ned inquired, a little confused.

"A group of six and ten visitors, all well-armed. Some of them have armor that I've never even seen before. They request an audience with the Lord of Winterfell."

Ned paused for a moment, then nodded. "Very well." As he walked down to the castle's main gate, his head was swimming with questions. Who were these new people? What did they want with him? As he approached the gate to where the visitors were, he noticed some very odd quirks about these people. First off was the leader, who wore a black fur cloak and dressed from head to toe in strange, black armor decorated with the motif of a wolf on the chestpiece.

The irony of this man coming to the seat of the Direwolves didn't go unnoticed by Ned.

Next were his companions, who all had various cloaks on. Some were, big, strong men, tough looking and fierce, others looked like they might take every valuable in the keep and no one would notice them. There were a few women in his group, though, shockingly enough to Ned. One woman was dressed in robes underneath the cloak, not entirely un-similar to a Maester's, another was dressed in steel plate armor just like her companions, and the last woman, a dark-haired, blue-eyed girl that looked to be in her twenties, had light, hardened leather armor on, and had a look in her eyes that said that she wasn't afraid to kill.

A very odd group of people indeed.

Their leader stepped forward to greet Ned, who noticed that this man did not extend courtesies immediately as expected of anyone trained in court politics in Westeros.

"Are you Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North?" the man asked, a strange tilt in his accent.

So this man was a forienger. Question now was, where were they from?

"Aye, I am Lord Eddard." Ned replied, not really sure what to make of the man. "Might I ask who you are, my friend?"

"I wouldn't say were friends quite yet." The man joked, removing his helmet. Ned got a good look at him then. He had brown hair, much like Ned's own, but he had deep blue eyes, and the muscle build of a man who's fought long and hard. His beard was trimmed short, and his nose had a slight hump near the bridge.

"My name is Anslaf Delmar, Thane of Whiterun, and these are my counterparts. We are travelers from Tamriel, and seek an audience with you, my lord."

Well, that explained the foreign accents.

"What is it that you need?"

The man, Anslaf, looked around. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately? I'm new to this land, and I'm not entirely sure whom I can trust yet."

Ned nodded. "This way, to the library." As they turned to walk to the castle library, Ned turned back to his guests.

"We have plenty of room if you desire to stay here for a while. No harm will come to you here, we are good people."

With that Ned turned and walked with Anslaf to the library. Once inside the quiet room filled with various books and tomes, and only a sleeping old man behind the counter, Ned beckoned Anslaf to sit at one of the desks, who immediately obliged.

"Now, what is it that you wanted to ask?" Ned inquired of Anslaf, who sighed before responding.

"Well believe me, I wouldn't have come over three thousand miles on a ship if it wasn't important. And for me, 'important' usually means either a massive war is about to break out, or there is an enemy so powerful that they could wipe out all life on the planet." The man leaned closer, his face a stern mask.

"What do you know of the race called the Others?"

Ned shifted in his seat. "Demons of ice and death, as the stories go. They were the reason that our house founder, Bran the Builder, erected the Wall. But they've been extinct for thousands of years. Why are you asking?"

Anslaf's voice was low. "Because I'm here to tell you that they aren't gone, they've just been…recovering, for the lack of a better word. Waiting for the right moment to strike."

Ned couldn't believe it. The White Walkers of legend, returning? That was impossible.

"I'm sorry…" Ned began to forcibly laugh. "It's not that I don't want to believe you. But, I'd like to hear some conformation from my brother, Benjen, first. Please don't take it the wrong way, but I'd rather her it from someone I've known all my life, rather than a stranger that just showed up at my door."

Anslaf drew a deep breath. "No hard feelings. I'm sure your brother Benjen would confirm my story. Now, about the realm. What can you tell me about its leaders? The history of this place?"

So Ned began to tell this "Blackwolf", as his nickname was told to him, about the various Great Houses and regions. He told him about how the realm used to be divided into seven independent kingdoms, how Aegon Targaryen had swiftly conquered the continent with an army of just sixteen hundred men and, more importantly, three dragons. He told him of the Westerosi Peace, or the _Pax Westrosum_ as Anslaf translated into the Imperial Tongue. He told him about Aerys the Mad, and how Prince Rhaegar and Robert Baratheon's love for his sister had caused Robert's Rebellion, or the War of the Usurper, as it was called in the far southern region of Dorne. He told him who he should trust and who he should regard with suspicion, in particular the Lannisters, and anyone in King's Landing, for that matter.

"What are the Lannisters like?" Anslaf asked him

"You've got Tywin, the patriarch. Ruthless, cunning, and opportunistic. His idea of ending wars is to completely destroy your enemy, even women and children. Honor-less coward, that one. Next, you got Jaime and Cersei, his twin eldest children. Jaime is a Kingslayer, who violated his sacred duty to protect Aerys, and Cersei is a spiteful, cruel woman, who is fiercely protective of her children. And finally, you have Tyrion, the imp. He is a decent fellow, so I've heard, but he also likes to spend his time either drinking and whoring, something he and King Robert have in common, now, or reading. I'm willing to say that he probably knows a great deal about your homeland."

Anslaf got a good chuckle out of that. The Blackwolf then began to tell Ned about his homeland, what was happening between the Dominion and the Empire, the recently ended Skyrim Civil War, and his family.

"How did you meet your wife?" Ned asked him. Anslaf just shrugged nonchalantly and replied. "We'll that's a rather long, complicated, story that involves her psychopathic father and a group of crossbow wielding hunters. Another time, I'll tell you." The Blackwolf then promptly got up from the desk.

"Now, my friend. You haven't introduced me or my group to your family yet." He proclaimed.

Ned laughed "In good time, my friend. Come, tell you escorts to meet us inside the dining hall inside the keep."

Anslaf gave him a huge grin. "Perfect, then."

* * *

The feast was by no means huge or grand. Those were only thrown for visitors of importance, such as the King, or for special occasions, like one of the noble family members' nameday. That being said, it was a decent sized meal, with all of the Blackwolf's group and the Stark family attending. Currently, Anslaf was entertaining Arya and Bran of tales of his exploits, ranging from him single-handedly taking on fearsome dragons, engaging entire forts of bandits alone, and rescuing prisoners from evil elves. Robb and Theon were busy engaging in discussion about swordplay with Vladimir and Jordis. Rickon was happily eating, while Maester Luwin engaged in conversation with Colette about the various applications of magic in Tamriel, and asking if he could learn from her. And Jon…

Jon was sulking in a corner, eating his meal by himself.

Ned sighed, he knew why the boy did this; to avoid those nasty comments and stinging looks he got from Lady Catelyn. Jon may try to put up a tough exterior, but Ned knew that the boy had no mother figure in his life, and suffered for it so. It pained Ned greatly to see him like this. He walked over to the boy, despite some protests from Catelyn, and sat down by him.

"Why are you here, by yourself, and not with your family?" Ned asked him. Jon just looked up and nodded to where Catelyn was, still glaring at him.

"I don't belong here." Jon said, his voice full of sadness and loneliness.

"Yes, you do, Jon. You are of my blood, and these are your brothers and sisters. They all love you, especially Arya and Bran." Ned reassured, pointing to where everyone was sitting. It was at that moment that Anslaf got up out of his seat, and walked over to where Ned and Jon sat.

"So, this is Jon Snow, eh?" Anslaf asked. "How would you like to spar with me tomorrow?"

Jon shot his head up in surprise. "Wha-I mean, of course!"

"That's the spirit!" Anslaf patted him on the shoulder. "Come, sit with us. My men would love to hear more about you." Anslaf walked back to the table. Jon hesitated for a moment, then got up and walked to where the others were sitting, and immediately took part in conversation with Ansalf and Erik. Ned smiled, and walked back to Catelyn, to enjoy the rest of the evening with his family and guests.

* * *

**Next Chapter: We finally get into AGOT territory, with all the incest and douchbaggery that is sure to follow. Stay tuned.**


	5. The Wolves of the North

**We are finally getting into A Game of Thrones territory! Now, we finally get to see a little of that wretched hive of scum and villainy known as the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.**

* * *

**5 Sun's Height, 4E 204/298 AL: King's Landing, Crownlands.**

He coughed up a bit of flem, then laid back down on his bed. Grand Maester Pycelle gave him some medicine to ease the pain. The old man bowed slightly before King Robert, before shuffling out the door.

"How did this happen, old man?" Robert asked Jon Arryn, running his hand through his thick beard. Jon coarsely laughed, before coughing some more.

"Robert…" he wheezed in between breathes. Robert leaned in closer to what his old friend and mentor had to say next.

"The seed is strong, your grace. Remember that. The seed is…" Jon began to hack violently again, and Pycelle literally rushed into the room, a feat that the fat King had never seen before, in an attempt to settle the Hand down. Robert walked out of the bedroom, pondering what Jon Arryn meant by that.

An hour later, Pycelle reappeared, and walked over to the King.

"I'm sorry." The grand maester said, shaking his wrinkled head. "I did all that I could for our Lord Hand. He has passed on to the afterlife." The old man walked away, and Robert put his head in his hands. His mentor, the one who guided him throughout his life, who kept his nation together, was now dead.

_Now what?_

Robert needed a new Hand of the King, that much was clear, but who? Stannis? His ungrateful little brother fled when Jon fell ill. Renly? The boy, despite being his youngest brother, was an effeminate little fop, and he was pretty sure that the Tyrells were playing him like a lute. Tywin? As if he'd give the Lannisters more power than they already had, considering the Lion's daughter was his wife, and his son, Jaimie, was a Kingsguard.

No, there is only one person he could truly rely on. His only true brother.

"Grand Maester!" Robert bellowed, running up behind the startled old man, a considerable feat considering his weight.

"Send a message to Winterfell at once. Tell Ned Stark what's happened. And tell him to expect me up there within the month."

* * *

**Winterfell, two days later…**

Anslaf was in the castle courtyard with Bran, Robb, Theon, and Jon, teaching Bran how to shoot with a bow. Bran shot and missed, going high and hitting a tree behind the wall causing him to stomp his foot into the ground in frustration. Jon came up behind him and reassured him.

"Go on, Bran. Father's watching."

Ansalf glanced up at the balcony, along with Bran, and saw Lord and Lady Stark watching their son.

"And your mother, too." The Blackwolf said. Bran nodded and strung his bow, keeping his eye on the bullseye. He released, and missed again, this time hitting a barrel to the left of the target. Bran made a sour face while Theon, Jon, and Robb started to laugh, and Anslaf tried to suppress a giggle.

"And which one of you was a marksman at ten?" Ned reprimanded. The Lord of the North then looked to his third son. "Go on, Bran." Robb approached Bran, and instructed him. "Relax. Keep your bow arm steady." He said as the young boy readied his bow again. This time, the arrow hit dead center of the target.

But Bran didn't fire his bow at all.

Everyone quickly turned around and found the culprit; a grinning Arya, holding another bow and giving a small courtesy. Bran, now annoyed at this stealing of his 'kill', began to chase after his sister, with everyone now in a fit of laughter. It was at that moment that Anslaf saw Ned turn to talk to Rodrik Cassel for a moment, and then yelled down to the courtyard.

"Boys, get saddled up and ready to move out, you too, Bran." He commanded. He turned to Anslaf. "You should come, too, Thane Anslaf."

"Aye, my lord." Anslaf responded. As he went over to get to his horse, he noticed Catelyn silently glaring at Jon. He immediately rushed over to him.

"Come on, we don't want to linger here." He said, putting his hand on Jon's shoulder. Jon agreed, and left the courtyard with him.

* * *

About an hour later, the party meet at the predetermined spot, a small depression with a hilltop just to the northeast. In the middle of this depression was a chopping block made of stone. There were about twelve northern soldiers around, with one scared looking young man in black, as he obviously knew what was to come next. The soldiers brought him to the stone block, where Ned and the others were waiting.

"What's your name, son?" Ned asked the deserter, his expression one of weariness.

"Will, my lord." The Night's Watch deserter whimpered in fear, but not of Ned's greatsword, which Theon was carrying.

"I know I broke my oath, and that I'm now a deserter. I should've went back to warn them…" The black brother continued, still shaking. "But I saw what I saw. I saw the White Walkers." Ned looked confused for a moment then nodded to the guardsmen, who pushed him down onto the block.

"Wait, my lord!" Anslaf called out to Eddard, wanting to hear what the Watchman had to say before he died. Anslaf knelt down to where the man's head was, and asked him, in his strictest voice possible.

"Now, I won't guarantee you'll be safe from execution. You did desert your friends on the Wall. But I need the absolute truth from you, and nothing but the truth. Did you see the Others?"

The watchman fearfully nodded. "What did they look like?" Anslaf pressed.

"Men, but their skin was a pale blue. They had weapons of ice, and nothing my comrades could do could kill them. And…and they raised the dead around them." Anslaf nodded, and walked away, his thoughts churning. He turned around in time to see the watchman apologize to Lord Eddard and ask if he could send his remains to his family in Torrhen's Square. Ned nodded, and drew his greatsword. Anslaf watched intently, never before watching something quite like this

_A noble performing his own executions? Not even my kinfolk are so bold._

"In the name of Robert, of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I, Eddard, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North, sentence you to die." Lord Stark finished, then raised his greatsword, and decapitated Will in a swift, precise stroke. The blood gushed out of the stump for a little bit, then slowed to a trickle. Ned handed his greatsword back to Theon, and walked to where Bran was. They exchanged a few words, before Ned walked up to Anslaf.

"What did he say?" Ned asked, his face stern, but his eyes worried.

"He basically confirmed my story." Anslaf replied, his tone one of utmost seriousness. "And if your brother says he's seen these things too, we are going to have to talk to the King, see if he can't send any available men to the wall."

Ned opened his mouth somewhat, then nodded. "We better get back." He said as he turned to mount his horse.

A few miles down the road, they encountered a dead mule deer, which had been gutted by what seemed like a large predator of some kind. Anslaf was the first to get off his horse and inspect the dead stag more closely. He made note that one of its antlers had been torn off, and noticed a trail of blood leading down into a ravine.

"Mountain lion?" Theon asked, while Anslaf shook his head.

"A cat will always go for the neck first, and will drag off its kill to a safer area." He stated.

"Besides, mountain lions don't come this far north." Eddard added, following the blood trail into the ravine. Anslaf, Robb, Jon, Theon, and Bran followed him. When they reached the bottom, they encountered the culprit; a dead wolf.

A very large dead wolf, easily the size of a black bear, making it the biggest wolf Anslaf had ever seen.

"A direwolf!" Ned exclaimed, pulling out the stag's horn from the direwolf's neck.

"Your house's sigil?" Anslaf asked him, while Robb raised an eyebrow.

"There hasn't been a direwolf south of the Wall in over a hundred years!" Robb pointed out, as everyone heard a whining noise coming from the dead wolf's belly. When they went over to check it out, they discovered five direwolf pups, three weeks old, still trying to suckling milk from their now dead mother. As they picked up the pups, Bran got a curious look on his face.

"What will they do, now that their mother's gone?" Bran asked, with a hint of sadness in his voice. Ned sighed. "They won't last long in the wild. Better to make their deaths quick." At that, Theon began to draw his dagger.

"Give me the pup, Bran." He ordered the youth, who immediately shielded the pup he was holding.

"Theon, put it away!" Robb intervened, stepping in between Theon and Bran.

"I take orders from your father, not you!" Theon yelled, but not really doing anything against his friend.

"Lord Stark." Jon said, gaining the attention of the group. "There are five wolf pups, one for each of the Stark children." Anslaf couldn't help but grin; the boy had successfully diffused a potentially messy situation in just a few seconds.

_I had to yell at the top of my lungs to get Tullius and Ulfric to agree to peace, along with a whole bunch of other things._

He saw Ned chew over his thoughts, and then the Lord of Winterfell gave his sons a stern warning.

"You will feed them yourselves, you will take care of them yourselves, and if they should die, you will bury them yourselves."

With that, he turned to walk back to his horse. As everyone else followed him, Anslaf noticed Jon scoop down and pick something up off the ground. It was a sixth pup, with snow white fur and red eyes, almost making it appear like a vengeful ghost.

"Look, the runt of the litter!" Theon mocked. "That one's yours, Snow." Jon shot Theon a nasty look, and kept on walking with the pup in his arms. Anslaf laughed to himself a little and followed them back to the horses.

* * *

**One month later… 7 Last Seed.**

Ever since the raven arrived bearing the news of Jon Arryn's death and the King's arrival to Winterfell, the days have been nothing short of hectic, as everyone was busy preparing for a grand feast and dance, as the monarch was a lover of food, drink, and women aplenty. And it wasn't just the king that was coming either, he was coming down with his family and almost a hundred other people, including his firstborn son, Crown Prince Joffrey Baratheon. Anslaf saw Bran climb off a tower wall, and ran excitedly to his mother.

"They're coming! I saw hundreds of horses and wagons!" Bran yelled excitedly, while Catelyn scowled.

"Brandon Stark, how many times must I tell you not to climb those towers?" she scolded, apparently signaling to Anslaf that the boy had done this thing quite a few times before hand. The youth looked down on the ground before mumbling an apology. Catelyn's face seemed to soften a bit, and she said she knew he was lying because he was looking at his feet, before telling him to run along. Anslaf walked over and started talking to Catelyn.

"I see he's as adventurous as ever." The Blackwolf pointed out. "And Summer seems to like him well enough." After the children had gotten their wolves, they had named them. Rickon named his black wolf Shaggydog, for he was young and wild. Arya had named her wolf Nymeria, after the warrior queen of Dorne. Sansa named her wolf Lady, for she seemed the best-behaved of the pups. Bran named his wolf Summer, for his copper colored coat. Robb named his pet direwolf Grey Wind, and Jon named his white wolf Ghost, for he liked to disappear and reappear at the oddest of times.

"His curiosity might get him killed one day." Cat sighed, turning to him. "I can't help but worry about his safety."

Anslaf laughed. "I'm sure he'll settle down when he gets into his teen years." He looked around. "Where is everyone else?" he asked.

"They're on their way now." She said, pointing to the crowd that was gathering near the gates. Anslaf turned and looked, and saw the Starks standing in front of everyone else. Anslaf also spotted his group right next to theirs, and so hurried off to join them. On the way he spotted a tiny form hiding in a cart with a northern helmet on.

"Hey." He whispered. "You'd better get back to your family, Arya." Arya turned and stuck her tongue out at him, then scampered off to join her family. Anslaf took his place next to Syrenne, who looked grumpy with a dress on, and Erik, who was exchanging the occasional glance with Sansa. A few minutes later, the gates opened, and the King's guards rode in. Half of them wore the black and yellow armor of his house, while the other half donned the crimson and gold armor of House Lannister. Seven of the guards wore white and gold, the Kingsguard. Next the Crown Prince and his bodyguard, a big man with a hounds helmet going by the name of Sandor Clegane, rode in along with the carriage carrying Queen Cersei and her younger children, Tommen and Myrcella, as well as the dwarf Tyrion Lannister. Finally, everyone around Anslaf bowed when the last man came in. He was a big, fat man, with a bushy beard and long, wild hair. His horse was panting from all the extra weight.

_Ah, so this must be King Robert, then. A little…rounder than what I expected_.

Anslaf did the same as everyone else and took a knee, but did not lower his head. He was intent on speaking to this man at the first available opportunity. The king walked over to Ned Stark, and beckoned everyone to rise.

"You've gotten fat." Robert pointed out to Ned, who just pointedly looked at the King's gut. The two just started to break out in a fit of laughter, and then Robert gave his old friend a hug. The King went over to Catelyn next, kissing her hand. "My Lady." He then turned to Robb. "You must be Ned's eldest. Tall, handsome, and just as stoic as your old man. I like you, lad."

"Thank you, your grace." Robb said as he slightly bowed before the King. The King then spoke to Arya, Sansa, and Bran, before turning back to Ned.

"Ned, let us go to the crypts. I wish to pay my respects." He said, looking past him into the tomb's entrance.

"Can't the dead wait, my love?" Cersei complained. "We've been travelling for a month, now."

"Ned." Robert ignored his wife and went with Ned into the crypts. All the Stark, Baratheon, and Lannister men started to talk to each other, and the Queen started to speak to Lady Catelyn and Sansa, while Joffrey decided that he wanted to spar against Robb, Jon, and Theon, causing Ser Rodrick to take them to the practice yard, while warning them all the way against using live swords.

"I don't like the looks of him." Erik said after a moment. Anslaf turned to his young protégé.

"Who?" the Blackwolf asked.

"The Crown Prince. He has 'spoiled smug prick' written all over his face." Erik stated, his disdain clear in his voice.

"Are you sure that's not your jealousy speaking?" Anslaf jested, giving his apprentice a slight elbow. Erik immediately blushed.

"N-no, I'm just concerned, that's all." Erik just stammered out, causing Anslaf to laugh at his embarrassment. "Look, I can tell you like the girl well enough. I see you and her exchanging glances and talking together all the time. Why don't you ask her if she feels the same way? I see no reason why Lord Stark would say no to a betrothal."

"Because the King most likely wants to wed his brat son to Lady Sansa." A voice called from behind them. Ansalf turned around and saw a tall, blonde knight approach them. He was wearing the armor of the Kingsguard, and had the look of a master swordsman.

"You know it's rude to butt into another man's conversation." Anslaf said, crossing his arms while taking his measure of the man.

"I realize that, but then again, when did I care what others thought?" He stated, smiling a smile that screamed to Anslaf as 'cocky ass son of a bitch'.

"You must be Jaime Lannister, then." Anslaf stated matter-of-factly. "I've heard many tales of your exploits."

"Did you, now? We'll, I'm quite flattered you seem to know everything about me, but what about you?" Jaime asked, raising an eyebrow ever so slightly.

"Anslaf Delmar, of Skyrim, but more in Tamriel know me as the Blackwolf." He said, deliberately leaving out being the Dragonborn.

"Tamriel, eh? Never been their myself but my father said most of what comes out of the mouths of Tamrielic sailors is complete rubbish, such as talk of dragons and vampires."

"Stranger things have happened." Anslaf chuckled. "You have heard, then, that things between the Empire and the Dominion are tense, to say the least."

"Indeed I have." Jaime said, then looked over his shoulder. "We'll, I enjoyed our little chat, but I'm afraid I must rescue my little brother from the voracious northern girls."

"Good luck with that." Anslaf said as Jaime turned away. He turned his head to his student. "Come, Erik, let's see how Robb's doing against the 'sweet' Prince." Both of them got a little chuckle out of that, then walked off in the direction of the practice yard.

* * *

After witnessing Joffrey get beat by nearly everyone with a blade, especially losing hard against Robb and Jon, and subsequently embarrassing himself with a temper tantrum which no one paid any attention to, Anslaf and Erik attended the grand feast that night, which was much bigger, and louder, than the one they had over a month ago. Syrenne was busy ignoring all the advances made on here from scores of drunk and horny men, while King Robert was having his fill of drink and women. Anslaf took a sip of his wine, when he noticed Eddard and a man in Night's Watch attire step over to him and Erik.

"Thane Delmar, this is my little brother, Benjen Stark, First Ranger of the Night's Watch." Ned said, introducing the man with him.

"An honor to meet you, Benjen. I'm truly sorry about Will." Anslaf said, shaking Benjen's hand.

"Aye. He was one of the finest soldiers I ever had, and one of our best trackers." Benjen stated, with genuine sadness in his grey eyes. Anslaf looked around, and then whispered to the both of them.

"Is there somewhere we can talk? In private?" He said, looking over where the Lannister men were seated. Benjen nodded, and the three stepped outside.

"Now, what is it do you need to say?" Benjen asked, crossing his arms. Anslaf sighed.

"What have you seen beyond the Wall?" He asked, his voice low.

Benjen shifted a little. "Entire villages of Wildings have been abandoned. We found several of them burning, destroyed, even. Many had the corpses of them arranged in some sort of weird pattern, and the bodies themselves vanish once we look the other way, like they just got up and walked off." Benjen shuddered a little, something that would cause concern to anyone who saw a veteran watchman quiver. "I saw things moving in the shadows up north of the Wall, too human-like to be animals. They moved quickly, though they made no attempt to attack me or my comrades. And there are reports of a truly massive force of wildings, two hundred thousand strong, at the least, under the command of Mance Ryder, gathering up for something." He paused. "Why do you ask?"

"Because those things you saw up north are exactly the same things Will encountered, and what I'm here to help stop." He said as Benjen's eyes grew wide in fear, and Ned looked grim.

"The Others have returned." Benjen realized.

"Yes. And they won't stop until the planet is under the thrall of their dark master, a demon whose name I shall not utter here, though we in Tamriel know this evil being well enough." Anslaf stated grimly. "You need to return to your brothers, and tell them they are coming. I will inform King Robert of this, and see how he reacts." He turned to Ned. "Lord Stark, you are his best friend, and soon to be Hand of the King, if you decide to accept. I'll need your help, even if that means Erik and myself ride with you to the capital." He looked at all of them, and drew a deep breath.

"Gentlemen, we have a lot to prepare for."

Ned nodded, and agreed with Anslaf.

"Aye. Winter is coming."

* * *

**And up next, Anslaf and Erik ride with the King's convoy to King's Landing, while Syrenne and the thieves ride ahead, as part of his plan. Meanwhile, things get hectic in Winterfell, and we are going to get around to whatever the hell Daenerys is doing in Essos. Eventually. Maybe. Oh, and Joffrey will be slapped around like the lil' bitch he is ^_^.**


	6. The Slayer

Erik I

**8 Last Seed, Winterfell.**

It was a bad day in Winterfell.

Scratch that, it was a _terrible_ day in Winterfell.

It started when he was out walking along the castle grounds while Lord Stark, King Robert, and his master we're hunting when he discovered Bran unconscious lying down on the ground near the north tower. He had immediately picked him up and rushed him to Maester Luwin and Colette, with Bran's pet direwolf, Summer, running along beside him. Colette and Luwin had him rushed to the maester's solar, were they immediately began to work on Bran. Catelyn was hysterical, not wanting to leave her son alone, while Sansa fought back tears, Arya was gritting her teeth, Robb and Jon just stood and swore and cursed, and Rickon was crying his eyes out. An hour later, Ned came back after hearing the news of his son's fall, and immediately rushed to the solar, where he saw his son lying in a bed unconscious and let out a wail of despair, for at that time it was hard to tell if Bran was going to survive his coma.

Now Erik was outside the room, trying to comfort Sansa.

"I'm sure Bran will come through, Sansa. He's a strong young lad." He said, putting his hand on her back. She smiled sadly. "I certainly do hope so. Bran was going to come with us to King's Landing. He always wanted to be a knight." Fresh tears streamed down her face, which made him want to take her into his arms and tell her everything was going to be alright. But... with her engagement to the Prince…. It just wasn't possible. A few minutes later, Colette exited the room, and Ned and Catelyn rushed to her.

"Well?" Ned asked, his face one of desperate impatience. "How is my son?"

Colette met his haggard stare, and sighed. "Well, he's alive, and he will be able to walk again." Ned and Catelyn hugged each other.

"But." Colette continued. "He can't be mobile without the use of a cane, nor can he ever run again. I daresay that if I hadn't been here, the best case scenario would have been paralysis below the waist." Catelyn grabbed her in a hug, tears running down her face.

"Thank you, thank you!" she stammered out, at least glad that her boy would live. Everyone broke into smiles and sighs of relief, while Sansa gave Erik a brief hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, as she quickly rushed out the door to spread the happy news that her brother would live. Erick pressed his hand to his cheek in astonishment. His master came to sit by him, and slapped the youth on the back.

"So, don't have your eyes on her, eh?" he said in apparent amusement, a sly smile gracing his face. Erik quickly spun around and shot Anslaf a look.

"It's not like that! She's just a good friend, that's all." He said, not really believing the words that came out of his mouth.

"Yeah, sure." Anslaf snorted. "And I'm a flying purple mammoth who farts rainbows and shits sweetrolls."

"Alright, fine!" Erik said, throwing his hands up into the air in defeat. "Not like it matters, anyway. She's in love with the Prince, whom, may I remind you, is betrothed to her as of last night." He said bitterly, remembering seeing Joffrey's smug sneer thrown in his direction when the King announced it rather loudly.

"There are plenty of fish in the sea to choose from. You're young, you still have time to find the right one for you." Anslaf remarked, patting his apprentice's back.

"But what if I don't want another fish?" Erik asked a little angrily. His master just sighed.

"Look, when I was your age, I was smitten with a girl in Ivarstead named Aldi. She was a cute, petite blonde woman, and I thought she would be mine forever. Well, as it turned out, we grew apart over the years, and she ended up getting married to some mercenary from Whiterun. I ended up going alone, adventuring, selling my sword arm to whomever paid good, and then got caught in that ambush, a series of events turned into me slaying a demigod, and then going into that crypt and finding Serana."

"So what you're saying is that I have to go on some crazy adventure just to get hitched?" Erik asked, his eyebrows raised questioningly. Ansalf just laughed. "No, no! What I am saying is be patient." Ansalf then got up and went over to talk to Syrenne and the thieves, quietly instructing them to saddle up their horses and make for King's Landing immediately and quickly. Syrenne nodded and headed out to the stables.

An hour later, everyone who was going to the capital saddled up and left Winterfell, along with the party that was going to the Wall, including Jon, who had decided the night previously that he wanted to join the Night's Watch. Everyone had wished him the best of luck, and now he was talking to Ned about something, though Erik couldn't make out what it was due to them talking in hushed tones. Soon after, Jon departed with Benjen and Tyrion, and they headed on their way to Kings Landing.

* * *

**15 Last Seed, 4E 204/298 AL: Near Castle Darry, Riverlands**

"That fool of a drunkard! The Others are gathering up an army to march on his lands, and all he can think about is some deposed princess?" His master angrily exclaimed as they sat in their tent. The meeting between Anslaf and King Robert had gone less than perfectly, with Robert more or less focused on one Daenerys Targaryen and her husband, Khal Drogo, who lead forty thousand Dothraki warrior-nomads in Essos. Robert feared that her brother, Viserys, had struck a deal with Drogo, and would lead them across the Narrow Sea to take back the throne. Eddard and Anslaf had argued against this, retorting that the Dothraki lack ships and the stomach to cross the sea, and that Viserys was a fool, and the Dothraki dislike fools and incompetents. And when Anslaf tried to bring up the topic of the White Walkers to him, he dismissed it as Wildling tribal warfare, and mere myths. And so the meeting had ended with Anslaf excusing himself and walking back to their tent, where Erik was sitting, all the while gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.

"He can't ignore the evidence for long. Sooner or later, he'll see for himself." Erik reasoned.

"A fat fool like him? I had better luck convincing Tullius and Ulfric of the threat posed by Alduin, and I thought they were the two most stubborn oafs I ever met." Anslaf griped, sitting down in a chair and reaching for a canteen on a nearby table.

"Well, I'm going to take a walk around the fort." Erik announced, getting on to his feet, and grabbing his dagger, while Anslaf just raised his canteen, indicating he was staying put. Erik opened the tent flap, and stepped outside, where he saw Stark, Lannister, and Baratheon guards all talking, making bets, taking shifts, and trading. He also noticed Sansa and her pet wolf, Lady, now grown to the size of a husky, walking around.

"My lady!" he said walking up. "Do you require an escort? It can still be dangerous out here." He exclaimed, immediately cursing himself for a stupid choice of words. Sansa just laughed a little. "I'm pretty sure I'll be fine, Ser Erik. Thank you for the offer, however." She said, flashing him the sweetest of smiles that made his heart skip a beat for just a second, forgetting to mention to her that he wasn't a knight. She turned to walk, and ran smack into a man neither of them had noticed. The man turned around, a permanent scowl etched onto his face. He lacked any hair, and he just grunted at Sansa.

"Oh, pardon me, ser. I didn't see you in the way." Sansa politely apologized to the man, who just grunted again and walked past her, as the Hound, Sandor Clegane, burned face and all, walked up to them.

"Does he frighten you, girl?" He rasped, and Erik couldn't tell if it was amusement or concern that was in his voice. "He frightens me, too. Hasn't talked much for the past twenty years, due to the Mad King ripping his tongue out." Now Erik saw that Sansa was getting a little uncomfortable with this man's presence, and tried to hide it the best she could. It was at that moment the last person in the entirety of Nirn that Erik wanted to see showed up.

"What's this?" Came the high-pitched voice from behind him, causing Erik to mentally faceplam. "Is the Hound bothering you my lady?" Joffrey Baratheon asked his betrothed, then turned to Sandor, and waved him away.

"Away with you, dog. I have no need for you at the moment." Joffrey commanded. Sandor slightly bowed, then walked away. Joffrey turned back to Sansa. "My apologies, my betrothed. The man you ran into earlier was Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice." When both Erik and Sansa gave the Prince slightly confused looks he clarified for them. "The royal executioner."

"Lovely." Erik stated sarcastically.

"Would my lady care for a walk?" Joffrey asked Sansa, occasionally glancing to Erik.

"Of course, my prince." Sansa said sweetly, her face blushing in excitement, which caused Erik to roll his eyes. He then thought of an idea.

"My prince, if I may be so bold, I would like to escort my lady. My mentor and I have sworn ourselves to the service of the Lord Hand, and he would be most displeased if anything were to happen either to his daughter or his son-in-law." He said, putting on his best poker face while trying to size up the prince's resolve. Joffrey glared at Erik, then relented.

"Fine, but you are here only to protect us. Nothing more." The crown prince warned. Erik just smiled and nodded, and the three walked toward the Ruby Ford, the site of Robert Baratheon's victory over Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. As soon as they stopped near the ford, Joffrey handed Sansa his canteen.

"You look thirsty. Here, have some of my wine." He said.

"Father will only allow us one cup." Sansa replied, looking down at her feet.

"Nonsense, you're my betrothed. A queen can drink as much wine as she wants." Joffrey insisted. Sansa let out a small smile and took the wine. It was at that moment what sounded like a fight came from the bushes a few meters to the right. They headed in the direction of the noise, with Erik and Sansa in tow. When they got to the source of the sound, they found Arya and the butcher's son, Mycah, playing with wooden sticks.

"Arya!" Sansa yelled, causing her little sister to jump and turn around, just as Mycah came in for a swing, hitting her in the arm.

"Ouch!" Arya complained, instinctively rubbing her arm. She then glared back at her sister. "What are you doing here?" she asked. "Go away."

"Your sister?" Joffrey asked amusingly. Erik then noticed Joffrey turning his attention to Mycah. "And who are you, boy?"

"Mycah, milord." Mycah replied, dropping his stick, his face one of fear.

"He's the butcher's boy." Sansa pointed out insultingly, which Arya didn't take kindly too.

"He's my friend!" Arya retorted, fire in her grey eyes. Joffrey then adopted a dangerous tone, one Erik heard too many times from evil and demented men.

"So a butcher's boy who wants to be a knight, eh?" Joffrey mocked, his smile becoming predatory. He drew his sword, Lion's Tooth, his smile becoming more evil. "Pick up your sword, _butcher's boy_! Let's see how good you are!" He intoned, walking toward where Mycah stood.

"She asked me to, Milord! She asked me to!" Mycah panicked, his sweat dripping down in sheets now.

"I'm your _prince_, not a lord." Joffrey warned. "Now, pick up your sword!"

"It's just a stick, my prince!" Mycah begged, with Joffrey getting closer.

"And you're not a knight, just a butcher's boy." Joffrey mocked as he pressed his blade against Mycah's cheek. "Don't worry, I won't hurt you…much." He said sarcastically. Before Erik could do something about it, Arya took her stick, and slammed Joffrey across the back with it. That is when things _really _went downhill.

"You stupid bitch!" Joffrey screamed as he tried to eviscerate Arya with his sword. Sansa was yelling at the two to stop, though they paid her no heed, as Arya tripped and fell, with Joffrey scowling and pointing his blade at her. "I'll gut you for that, you filthy little cunt!"

Erik didn't remember rushing at him, he didn't remember tackling the Crown Prince to the ground in order to disarm him. What he did remember, though, was Joffrey's cries of pain as his shoulder was dislocated, and Erik took the sword away and pressed it against the young Baratheon's throat.

"Don't kill me!" Joffrey whimpered, in fear of Erik and the direwolf that had suddenly appeared, growling at him. Erik smirked. "Oh, quit your whining. I didn't hurt you…much." He then took the sword and chucked it into the river. He turned around and noticed Arya and her wolf had vanished, leaving a whimpering Joffrey and Sansa.

And she was glaring at _him_.

"Sansa…" He began, trying to explain why he did what he did, but she just huffed and walked back to her tent, tending to a still whining Joffrey all the way. Erik mentally cursed himself, not only was Arya now in danger, but now he lost his best chance to be with Sansa and, in his mentor's eyes, might have just compromised the mission. He then remembered that Arya and her wolf had run off, and so rushed off in the direction he had seen them run. Crashing through the underbrush and around the trees, he ran, calling out to the younger Stark daughter.

"Arya! Nymeria!" he called out, looking in every direction he could. He then noticed a tail sticking up out of a bush, and what he believed to be Arya's voice whispering to her direwolf.

"Arya!" he called. "It's me, Erik! It's going to be ok." He reached the brush, and found Arya looking up at him with palpable fear in her grey eyes.

"No it's not." She said. "They might hurt Nymeria, or you." She whispered, her voice full of dread. Erik knew of the Prince's now apparent ruthlessness, and was sure his mother wasn't much better than he was.

"Arya, my mentor and I swore an oath to protect your family, no matter the cost. Trust me, neither Joffrey nor his whore mother will lay a finger on you." He declared, offering his hand to Arya. Arya sniffled a bit, and took his hand, as they heard voices calling out for her. He lead the Stark girl and her direwolf back through the forest to the castle, by then it was getting dark, and they were confronted by a very worried looking Eddard.

"Arya, you're safe!" he exclaimed, pulling his youngest daughter in a tight hug. He then put Arya down and clasped Erik's hand. "I cannot thank you enough for saving my daughter."

"I was just doing what was doing what was expected of me." Erik replied. It was at that moment that Ned's captain of the guard, Jory Cassel, son of Rodrick Cassel, came over to them, a grim expression on his face.

"Forgive me my lord, but the king has requested your presence in the keep." He looked at Erik. "He has requested your presence, and the Stark girls, as well."

"What did he say?" Ned asked, apprehension lacing his voice.

"He wants the girls and Erik here to recount their version of the events at the ford today, my lord

Everyone moved into the keep, which was not meant to hold anything beyond its normal garrison. King Robert was sitting on a makeshift throne, with his wife and son standing next to him. Erik was trying not to laugh as he spotted Joffrey's sling, and the crown prince scowled at him. He stopped trying to laugh, however, when he caught his mentor glaring at him.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ned angrily asked the King.

"Your daughter and her guard savaged my son!" The Queen answered for her husband, wrath and smugness both dancing in her emerald green eyes. "Ambushed him while he wasn't looking."

"He did no such thing!" Arya yelled, drawing everyone's eyes to her. "He defended me and Mycah from the prince. He was hurting my friend and tried to kill me."

"Liar." Joffrey yelled. Before Erik could answer, however, his father yelled at the top of his lungs.

"SEVEN HELLS! She tells me one thing, he another! What am I to make of this?" He turned his gaze to Erik. "Boy, what happened? And don't you even think about lying to me either!" He commanded. Erik cleared his throat, stood his ground, and began to speak.

"Your grace, I was escorting my Lady Sansa and her betrothed through the woods near the river. We happened upon Lady Arya and her friend around a half hour into our trek. The prince drew his sword, and challenged Mycah to a duel, who respectfully refused, as was his right. The prince here, then began to threaten the butcher's son, and started to cut his cheek open. Arya decided to defend her friend, and hit your son across the small of the back. He grew enraged, and started to swing his sword at Arya, intent on killing her." He paused his story, and looked back at his master, who nodded at him. He turned his head back to the king. "I swore an oath to Lord Stark, as did my mentor, to protect his family, no matter what the cost. I ran at the prince, and tackled him to the ground. That's how his shoulder was dislocated. I threw his sword in the river, and began to search for Arya. Punish me, if you must, your grace, but spare Arya and her wolf, they did no wrong." He finished. He gauged the king's face for a reaction. The fat old man turned to his son, disappointment in his eyes.

"You let a little girl and her bodyguard disarm you, all because you were stupid enough to go looking for a fight where there was none to be had?" Joffrey looked crestfallen at his father's biting words, while Cersei scowled at her husband.

"Don't speak to our son that way, _Robert_!" she spat, the venom clearly evident in her voice.

"Watch that tongue of yours, woman!" Robert spat back, no love in his voice for his wife. It was at that moment that Sansa took a place by Erik, a blank expression on her face.

"Hey." He began, trying to apologize for what happened at the Ruby Ford. "I'm sorry for what I did back there. I was just trying to protect your sister." Sansa, however, paid him no heed, and just looked the other way.

_She hasn't forgiven me for the incident_. Erik thought sourly.

"That man needs to be punished!" Cersei nearly screeched, obviously enraged at the mere thought that her 'precious little angel' had been hurt.

"That's quite fucking enough out of you!" Robert yelled, causing the Queen to immediately shut up. "Fine! Ned, you discipline your child, I'll do the same with mine, and Anslaf, please refrain your ward from trying to kill my heir. We're done." Robert got up and started to walk out, but Cersei wasn't quite finished yet.

"And what of the direwolf, the one that threatened our son?" She asked, a dangerous smile starting to play at her lips. Robert sighed, and muttered to himself. "Forgot about the damned wolf." He turned to Ned, who was realizing, with horror written on his face, what the Queen intended for Nymeria.

"Robert, you can't do this!" Ned insisted to his friend, who just looked at him with defeated eyes.

"It's a direwolf Ned, not a pet. Get her a dog." He said, shoving his way past. Now both Arya and Sansa were in tears, begging the Queen to spare Nymeria, but to no avail. Erik's blood was now absolutely boiling, seeing the smug smiles of Cersei and Joffrey, both of them delighted to seemingly cause pain to whom they considered to be their enemies.

"Is this your command…_your grace?_" Ned asked the king, who ignored him and exited the keep. Erik excused himself, as he heard Ned arguing with the Queen. He exited the building, and saw the Hound riding his horse, carrying a bruised and bloody corpse.

It was Mycah.

"You rode him down?" He asked angrily, wanting to draw his claymore right then and there and strike the burned man down.

"He ran." The Hound said emotionlessly. "But not very fast." Erik then slammed his dagger down on the ground, and sat, the cool night breeze no comfort to the burning rage in his heart. A whining sound drew his attention to the edge of the forest. Curiosity took hold of him, and he traced the source of the sound back to its owner; a small wolf, its throat torn open by a large branch. As it breathed its last, ragged breathe, an Idea came over the young Nord. One that might spare Arya of her pet's death and hopefully fool the queen. He picked up the dead wolf, and walked to where Lord Stark was, sharpening his dagger for the grim purpose at hand. This gamble had to pay off.

* * *

**Eh, sorry that took so long for me to update. I'm busy trying to find work right now, and trying to get my back fixed, and ugh! In other news, Game of Thrones Season 4 is out, and phenomenal as ever, despite the one or two changes from the storyline in A Storm of Swords. Especially liked the second episode, for obvious reasons. Up next, Winterfell gets a surprise visitor, Ned begins his first day in the City of Backstabbers, and a certain dwarf gets caught. Toodles!**


	7. The Strong and the Small

The Strong and the Small

**Winterfell, the very same night…**

"Mother, you can't stay in here forever. You need to sleep." Robb insisted, looking at his mother, who looked frayed and pale.

"I can't. I have to be awake for Bran." Catelyn begged, her eyes looking haggard and her hair severely unkempt. Valdimar just sighed. "Colette and Master Luwin both assured us of his health, my lady."

"But what if they're wrong? Bran NEEDS me!" She pleaded, her eyes full of tears and her voice on the edge of breaking.

"I need you!" Robb yelled. "Rickon needs you! He's been clinging to my leg for the past week, crying about what's going on!" The young lord of Winterfell looked toward the window. "It's stuffy in here. I'm going to open the window." Outside, Shaggydog and the dogs were howling. Robb opened the window, while Catelyn covered her ears. "Oh, the noise, those damned wolves! Make them STOP!"

"It's alright, mother. It's just the dogs…" he trailed off as he noticed flames coming from the library. "Fire." He uttered out in alarm. "Valdimar, stay put with my mother. I'll come back." He commanded, literally rushing out the door. Valdimar got up and went over to where the window were Catelyn was, looking at the fire that was rising out of the library's window.

"You're not supposed to be in here." A deep, throaty voiced mumbled out, as the bald, mustached Nord twirled around, drawing his war axe. He saw the source of the voice, a poor looking man in dark clothes with a hood adorning his head. Vladimir mentally cursed himself for not watching the door. "No one is supposed to be in here." He drew, looking over to where Bran was sleeping. "It's a mercy, he's dead already." The assassin drew his dagger, and made his way over to the boy.

And Valdimar made his move.

He swung his axe in an upward arc, intent on disarming the man while making sure not to hit the boy. And just as the man reached out with his dagger, the blade of the war axe connected with cloth, flesh, and bone. The hand that held the dagger fell harmlessly on to the bed, still clutching the finely made blade.

The hitman let out a bloodcurdling scream, now clutching the bloody stump which once had his right hand attached to it. Annoyed with the man's screeching, Valdimar promptly hit him on the head with the pommel of his axe, knocking the assassin out in an undignified heap.

"That'll shut your damn jabbering up." Valdimar muttered, as a few guards ran into the room.

"Where the hell were you three?" Valdimar yelled at the lead guard, who looked shocked.

"We-we were downstairs, ser! We didn't see that man sneak up here, we swear." He stammered out. Valdimar just snorted in contempt. "You should all be executed for negligence, but seeing as how I'm equally at fault, I'll let you go." He looked at the unconscious assassin. "Get him out of here and into the dungeons. And make sure to clean up and cauterize his stump. I'm going to go get Lord Stark."

* * *

**The next morning, Winterfell dungeons.**

The guard splashed cold water on Palyn's face, shocking him in to consciousness. He quickly opened up his eyes, and took in his surroundings. The cell he was in was cold, dark, and damp with the moisture coming out of the natural hot springs that Winterfell was built upon so many millennia ago. The only light that came in was from a tiny slit high above and behind him. He turned his head toward his right hand, or rather the place where his hand had been. The stump had healed enough to the point where new skin started to cover the burnt flesh of the amputated arm. Palyn groaned, trying to think of what went wrong. His job had been simple enough. Quietly slip in to the young lord's room, slit his throat, and make his way back to King's Landing for a handsome reward. Only things had gone horribly awry when he found the boy's mother and a guard in the room. He remembered screaming due to the pain and the shock, and then waking up in the cell. He then focused his attention on the guard in the room. The guard didn't wear any of the typical Stark armor, as far as he could tell in the dim light. Instead, his armor was steel plate, decorated with foreign carvings. He was bald, and had a long, grey handlebar mustache. His brown eyes seemed to stare right into Palyn's soul, as if he was one of the Seven Devils himself.

And to his horror, he remembered exactly who this man was.

Palyn started to struggle against the cuff that chained his left hand, anger and fear gripping his heart like a vice.

"Now," the man began to speak, a sort of malicious intent lacing his foreign voice. "Let's start this off right. You tell me the truth, and no harm comes to you. Lie to me or deny the truth…well, let's just say things will be rather, _unpleasant._" He said, his grin one of a predator savoring its kill. "I trust, though, that your common sense will prevail." The larger man walked over to where Payln was. A bludgeon was in his hand, and he was twirling it around menacingly.

"Question one." The man began to ask. "What was your mission here?"

"T-t-to kill Brandon Stark of Winterfell." Palyn whimpered, releasing the contents of his bladder.

"And why was that?" the large man inquired.

"Because my employer ss-s-said so." Palyn replied.

"And who is your employer?" The man asked, resting the tip of the bludgeon on his shoulder.

"He will kill me if I tell!" Palyn started to scream hysterically. "He said he'd cut me into pieces and leave me to the buzzards!" He was met by a sharp hit to the face with the baton, which caused him to see stars for a quick moment.

"I asked who it was, not whatever some rich fucker said he would do to you!" The large man pulled out the dagger. "This is a Valyarian steel blade. So rare and priceless that even nobles and monarchs are considered _fortunate_ to own one. So I'll ask you again, which one of these backwater nobles gave you this rare and priceless blade, TO KILL A GODSDAMNED CHILD?" The large man spat at the end, readying the baton for another strike. Palyn's will broke.

"I DON'T KNOW!" He screeched, his eyes welling up with tears. "He came to me cloaked in a black hood, though his robes looked ornate. His cloak was clasped with a small, golden lion pin…" The large man cut him off at that point.

"Did you say a 'lion pin'? As in, the golden lion of the House of Lannister?" The large man inquired, a deathly worried look to his face. Palyn nodded frantically. "The man said he'd give me a hundred gold dragons for the boy's blood. Said it would be a mercy for the boy." He finished, his breathes rapid from fear. The large man promptly turned around.

"Thank you for your cooperation. I'll try to get your sentenced commuted down to joining the Night's Watch. But don't be surprised if your head rolls off the block tomorrow." He said as coolly as he could, then exited the cell and slammed the door shut behind him, leaving Paly to slump down and black out.

* * *

"What I'm about to say stay's here in this godswood." Catelyn told the small group of five, which included Robb, Theon, Maester Luwin, Ser Rodrick, and Valdimar. "I don't think Bran fell from that tower, I believe he was _pushed_." She paused letting that sink into the group. "And whomever pushed him sent an assassin, armed with this." She said as Rodrick brandished the dagger. "The blade is Valaryian steel, the hilt, dragonbone. No ordinary man could've bought this on his own." He added with deadly clarity. Catelyn's eyes steeled as she continued. "I would bet my life the Lannisters are somehow involved. We already suspect their loyalty to the Crown." Valdimar took this as an opportunity to present his findings. "My interrogation of the prisoner has confirmed that he was hired by someone with Lannister ties. Whether it was a member of the family or not, he did not say."

Robb started to clench his fists. "The Lannisters come into our home as guests, and repay us by trying to kill my brother?" he said through gritted teeth. "If it's a bloody war they want…"

"I'll fight alongside you!" Theon jumped in, which earned them a scolding from the old man.

"And what then?" Luwin reprimanded. "We have a battle right here in the godswood? Be careful of thoughts of war, for they become _acts_ of war." His lecture seemed to have calmed down the young Lord, but only just. Valadimar just snorted in apparent amusement.

"Bran saw something in that tower, something he shouldn't have seen. And someone tried to kill him for it." Valdimar noticed Catelyn steel herself in preparation for her next words. "Ned needs to be warned about this. But sending a raven to King's Landing is far too risky. So I have decided that I shall ride to King's Landing." She said, iron in her voice and eyes.

"Let me come with you, then." Robb offered, and Catelyn just shook her head.

"No, Robb, your place is here; there must always be a Stark in Winterfell." She commanded her firstborn son. Rodrick then spoke up again.

"Don't worry, my lord." He reassured. "Lady Catelyn won't travel alone. I'll keep her safe."

"I'd travel in disguises or cloaks, if I were you." Valdimar pitched in. "The cover of darkness is also preferable, and by horse if necessary, for it's a fair bet the Lannisters suspect that we know something."

"Agreed." Catelyn agreed quickly, and turned to leave with Ser Rodrick, but then was stopped by Robb.

"What about Bran?" Robb asked his mother, and from what Valadimar could see there was a hint of sadness mixed with discontentment mixed in the young lord's eyes. Catelyn sighed and looked down at her feet, then looked at him with a resigned look. "I have prayed to all the gods. It's up to them to look over him now."

* * *

**Castle Black, a few days later.**

The Wall was everything that Tyrion expected.

Cold, colorless, and manned by bitter men, mostly former criminals and disgraced nobles, with Jon Snow now counting among them, having took his oath a few hours before. Tyrion liked the boy, but he could do without the boy's constant complaining and emotional outbursts. As much as he enjoyed pissing off the top of the Wall, he missed the comforts of the South, and he had to get back before Ser Alliser tried to take his head for the sole sin of being a Lannister. He took another swig of his wine, and sat across from Lord Commander Jeor Mormont and Maester Aemon, the old maester of Castle Black.

"Well, Lord Snow took the news of his brother's waking rather well." Tyrion quipped, pouring him another cop of wine. "Too bad the poor boy will have to walk with a cane for the rest of his life."

"Aye, though he is lucky he can walk at all." Jeor consented, looking down at the imp. Tyrion took another drink, then set down his cup and folded his hands in front of him. "So, my black-garbed friends, what news beyond the Wall. Anymore tales of grumpkins or snarks?" He asked amusingly, though he stopped smiling as soon as he caught a glare from Jeor that could ignite wildfire.

"You know, Lord Commander, between you and Benjen, you two take those tales of White Walkers seriously."

"As should you, Lord Tyrion." Maester Aemon spoke, his eyes seemingly looking past Tyrion into the empty space behind him, which the smaller man found a little unnerving. "How many winters have you seen?" he asked.

"Eight, no, nine." Tyrion replied. Aemon nodded his old head. "All of them brief?"

"The winter of my birth was said to be three years long, Maester Aemon." Tyrion said, taking yet another swig of wine.

"This summer has lasted nine, but already reports from the Citadel tell us the days are growing shorter. The Starks are always right eventually-winter _is_ coming. This one will be long, and dark things will come with it." The old man said, his voice growing grimmer by the second.

"We've been capturing wildlings, more every month. They're fleeing south; the ones who flee say they've seen the White Walkers." Mormont added, setting aside his flask. Tyrion snorted dismissively. "Yes, and the fishermen of Lannisport claim to see mermaids, and the sailors from Tamriel think they see dragons." Tyrion waved his hand. Rubbish out of the mouths of fools, as his father would often say. Commander Mormont looked him in the eye. "One of our own rangers swore he saw them kill his companions. He swore it...right up to the moment Ned Stark chopped his head off!" he nearly yelled, causing the little lion to jump back. Maester Aemon shook his head and sighed. "The Night's Watch is the only thing standing between the realm and what lies beyond, and it has become an army of undisciplined boys and tired old men. There are less than a thousand of us now; we can't man the other castles on the Wall. We can't properly patrol the wilderness. We've barely enough resources to keep our own lads armed and fed." He finished sadly, his feeble hands shaking. The Old Bear's gaze turned to one of desperation. "Your sister sits by the side of the King. Tell her that we need help." He pleaded the small Lannister, who then looked back at Maester Aemon, whose gaze turned stony. "And when winter comes, gods help us all if we're not prepared."

* * *

**OK, short little chapter here. Well, maybe not little, but yeah, Valdimar is a housecarl that appears in Hearthfire, and I decided to make him Anslaf's slightly sociopathic, aggressive housecarl who enjoys cracking skulls and killing enemies. Though he's extremely tame compared to someone like the Mountain or Ramsay Snow. And I finally got around to writing a little bit over our favorite Imp! Next chapter, Eddard Stark meets his duplicitous coworkers, Tyrion visits Bran, Erik is trying to make amends with Sansa, and Jon Snow is knowing nothing, still. Till next time.**


	8. A Den of Vipers

A Den of Vipers

"_Smoke, sweat, and shit. King's Landing, in short. If you have a good nose you can smell the treachery too." Jaime Lannister._

* * *

**Anslaf**

**20 Last Seed, 4E 204/298 AL, Ten miles outside King's Landing, Crownlands.**

* * *

The first thing that Anslaf noticed about the city while the caravan made its way to the capital of Westeros was the majestic palace of the Royal Family; the Red Keep. Its jutting spires and towers dominated the skyline of the city, its aesthetics reminding him somewhat of Dragonsreach in Whiterun back home.

Home.

He missed his manor in Falkreath, but more importantly he missed the smooth silky skin of his wife, and the joyous laughter of his infant twins. He often wrote to them as often as he could, and from what he could tell from the letters Serana missed him as well. She wrote in the letters how Lydia was helping her take care of the babes and that Calder once got in a fist-fight with a bear that wondered to close to the house, and actually triumphed, managing to drive the large furry predator away, before having Lydia stitch up his arms and torso. She also wrote to him of the political happenings in Tamriel, how the Dominion and the Empire were getting ready for an all-out war. Already Valenwood was undergoing a brutal revolt, almost as bad as the one that ripped Skyrim apart three years ago, and the Dominion was pointing at the Emperor as the culprit, to which the Elder Council had accused the Thalmor of meddling in its own internal affairs during Ulfric's rebellion against the Dragon Throne, so they had no right to tell the Empire what it could do and not do. There have been several incidents involving Imperial frigates intercepting Dominion sloops, and Legion sentries catching Khajit spies trying to cross the Cyrodil-Elswyer border. It was only a matter of time, she had written, when the oil barrel would ignite and become a war far worse than the First Great War. Anslaf had written to her of his fears that the conflict had the very real potential of turning into a global war, with things also on a proverbial knife's edge in Westeros, and he suspected that the Dominion had always had a hungry eye trained on the resource rich Seven Kingdoms and the wealth of the city-states of Essos. And on top of that, the infamous Westerosi winter was arriving in under a couple of years, and he knew that with it the Others, and quite possibly Molag Bal, if he ever found a way to set foot onto the mortal plane, were coming as well. And if things weren't handled here, he honestly did not think that mortal kind would survive in the Lord of Slavery's new hellish, frozen playground. The thought of what that monstrous Daedra would do to his wife made him both afraid and angry in equal measure.

"So, where did you learn to fight?" Jaime Lannister asked, snapping the Dragonborn out of his thought process.

"A man by the name of Yamato." Ansalf replied with reverence for his well-traveled master.

"Yamato?" Ser Jaime inquired. "What kind of name is that?"

"Akaviri He was a _ronin_, a master-less _samurai_. Comparable to a hedge knight here. I doubt he would have beaten someone like your mentor, Arthur Dayne, if he went toe to toe with a true master in one specific art. No, my master believed it is better to know all skills and be a master at none, that to be a master of only one specific skill, for one day that one skill could fail you, and you'd be left with nothing, but if you know all skills, you have plenty of fall back options."

"Well said." Jaime replied. "What was he like as a person?"

"Cold, unyielding, and expecting nothing less than excellence from his pupil, myself, in his later years. He had traveled from all over the world, from the rice patties and bamboo jungles of Akavir, to the plains and deserts of Essos, the rocky mesas of Elswyer, the ash lands of Morrowind, and finally to the mountains and tundras of Skyrim, where he found me, a little orphan boy, no more than nine years of age, scavenging for scraps on the streets of Riften." Anslaf laughed a little when he remembered how his mentor met him all those years ago. "I was running up to pick this man's pockets, and he turns around, giving me the most menacing glare that my nine-year old self had ever scene. Being the stubborn, stupid boy that I was at that time, instead of running off like all the smart thieves I saw do, I automatically decide that my best course of action is to punch this guy square in the gut. Being Yamato, this naturally doesn't really affect him, and he responds by slapping me across the face. I honestly didn't expect a little Akaviri man like him to hit that hard. I end up getting knocked flat on my ass, he then walks toward me, glares down, and says, in perfect Common. 'Son, that was more pathetic than a punch from one of those yellow point eared pricks, and they're a bunch of cunts. So if you actually want to learn how to fight, stick by me.' So I did for about eleven years, learning how to read, write, swordfight, archery, horse riding, and everything you could expect of a knight, or a _samurai_ as they are known in Akavir. I learned how to write and speak in several different tongues and dialects, including Cyrodilic, Akaviri, Aldmeric and its various sub-forms, and Daedric."

"He sounds a lot like my little brother, though my brother prefers to use his mind over his sword arm." Jaime quipped, then the Kingslayer asked the most uncomfortable question he could ask him. "What happened to him?"

Anslaf squirmed in his saddle, a flood of unwanted memories came rushing back to him. "He was murdered by a man I called brother once." He said, putting as much ice into his tone to warn the Lannister he was treading on dangerous waters. Jaime apparently took the hint and turned his head toward the city. Five miles later, one of the most ungodly scents Anslaf had ever smelled assaulted his nostrils like with the fury of an angry troll. He had to put his hand to his nose, in a vain effort to keep the unholy combination of the smells of shit, piss, cum, and vomit, out of his nostrils. Jaime laughed, apparently amused by his reaction to the stench of the city.

"By the-urp-gods, man!" Anslaf yelled. "Do you people not have indoor plumbing?" Jaime gave the Nord an inquisitive look, and Anslaf mentally face palmed himself.

_Of course they wouldn't have indoor plumbing, when it had just been rediscovered in Tamriel only a year ago._ He thought to himself. An expedition to Blackreach had yielded an important, and well-acclaimed, discovery. The scholars had discovered a lexicon, and when they deciphered months later, it was discovered to be a latchkey discovery, holding the plans of every Dwemer invention ever created by the mysterious race, and even technical plans to prototypes the Dwemer were planning to use. What those prototypes were, no one knew, but everyone knew from those plans came indoor plumbing and the toilet, leading the citizens of the Empire to live cleaner, healthier lives. Anslaf suspected, however, the Empire also was latching on to certain discoveries made from that lexicon, though he couldn't find out exactly what they were. Even Decius had seemed in the dark when he inquired about it. Ansalf had all but dropped the matter, but he always kept those questions in the far recesses of his mind. Before he knew it, they were there. Before them stood the Dragon Gate, one of the seven gates of King's Landing, and the most well defended. A voice from the gatehouse called out to the men manning the gate.

"The King approaches! Open up that damned gate, you fools!" With a swiftness that could only be rivaled by a mouse, the city watchmen manning the gate quickly raised the portcullis and opened the heavy, iron reinforced oak doors, and the caravan proceeded inside the city. Anslaf noted a few things about the city. First, was its average citizens, or in this case, peasantry. Anslaf noticed that many, if not most, were dirt poor, barely scraping by for a living, in contrast to citizens of the Empire, who were relatively well off.

"Ah yes, Flea Bottom." Jaime quipped, looking rather bored. "These are the slums of the city, a pimple on the ass of this _wonderful_ capital." He put with as much sarcasm as he could in his voice. Anslaf tried to scrub that image from his brain. Of to his right, he spotted another majestic building. It looked like a cathedral, designed as a seven-pointed star, or a heptagon.

"This must be the Great Sept of Baelor." Ansalf mused as they rode past the giant church, or sept, as the Faith of the Seven liked to call it. Another slow fifteen minutes later, they reached the castle stables. As everyone either dismounted their horses, a steward of the castle walked up to Lord Eddard.

"Welcome to the capital, Lord Stark. The small council is waiting for you in the council chambers. I'd recommend a change of clothes first, as you surely have ridden hard for the past month." He said in a chippy voice. Anslaf chuckled to himself when he saw the look on the steward's face when Ned responded by simply taking off his gloves and headed toward the Tower of the Hand, the place where the Hand of the Kind resided in, and was already set up for Ned Stark to begin work. Anslaf tapped the steward on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, sir, but I am one of Lord Eddard's guards. I would like a tour of the palace grounds while my apprentice helps his daughters to their chambers" He asked politely. The steward looked at him, then shrugged as if saying he didn't really care. The shorter man took him across most areas of the palace grounds, including the Tower of the Hand; the White Sword Tower, the headquarters of the King's Guard; Maegor's Holdfast, a redoubt within the castle surrounded by thick walls and a spike filled moat. Finally, they arrived at the Great Hall, the throne room of the King of Westeros. The steward had the guards open up the doors to the throne room, and in Anslaf went. The hall was large, almost as large as the Imperial Throne Room, with large columns covered with vine decorations. The large, glass windows, designed in the style of the Faith's choosing, provided much of the light in the room. And at the end of the hall, sitting on a black stone daïs in front of a large, glass mosaic, was one of the ugliest chairs that Anslaf had ever scene. Sharp edges made up this monstrosity, radiating power and authority, just as the Dragon Throne did, but this one also had a sinister feel to it, as if the blades that made up this throne itself wanted to tear anyone that sat upon it to pieces.

This was the Iron Throne of Westeros, the very symbol of the might and power of the Seven Kingdoms.

The part of Anslaf that was Dovah stirred, urging him to sit on the Iron Throne, and take this realm with his might and his power. He resisted the temptation, however. He would not become a tyrant like so many Dragonborn before him, Miraak the first among them. No, his purpose was to be a protector of the races of men, not their conqueror. The steward droned on about the history of the Throne, mainly about its legendary forging from the thousand blades of Aegon Targaryen's defeated foes by the breath of Balerion the Dread, a dragon who had apparently survived the Akaviri purges. Anslaf then took his leave and retired to his own chambers within the Hand's Tower a few minutes later, which to his pleasure had already been set up by his apprentice, who conspicuously wasn't there. If he had to guess, he was off to visit Sansa, though the Dragonborn highly doubted that Sansa would want to speak to him at the moment. Anslaf unfastened his belt, laid his sword to lean on the dresser next to his bed, and then laid on the bed on his back, his hands behind his head, making sure to try to visit Syrenne in the predetermined spot she had picked out for clandestine meetings at the pre-designated time today. He then closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

**Ned**

"Right this way, my Lord Hand." The steward said as he lead Ned Stark through the great oak doors, now dressed in his finest noble clothes of the northern style, and wearing a shoulder cape over his brown vest. He walked into the Great Hall, and saw Jaime Lannister sitting on the daïs of the throne, looking around the room almost as if he were remembering the events that took place here.

"Thank the gods you're here, Stark." He droned as if bored with Ned already. "It's about time we had some stern, northern leadership." He mocked, never breaking eye contact with Eddard. Ned just scoffed. "Glad to see you're protecting the throne."

"Sturdy old thing. How many kings' asses have polished it, I wonder?" He quipped, before adopting his trademark grin. "And, what's the saying? 'The King shits, and the hand wipes.'" He again mocked. Ned ignored him and eyed his armor. "Looks almost new, not a scratch on it." He observed dryly. Jaime shrugged. "I know. People have been swinging at me for years, but they always seem to miss."

"You've chosen your opponents wisely, then." Ned retorted, still locking eyes with Jaime, who nodded.

"I have a knack for it." He said to the Hand. Eddard knew that was a threat, but chose to ignore it, for if Jaime did try to kill him there, they both knew that Robert would have ordered the Kingslayer's execution right there and then. After a few tense moments, Jaime began speaking again.

"Must be strange for you, coming into this room." Jaime quickly looked down on the ground, then back up at Ned. "I was standing right here when it happened." He looked Eddard in the eyes again. "He was very brave, your brother. And your father, too. They didn't deserve to die like that." He said truthfully. "_No one_ deserves to die like that."

"And you just stood there and watched." Ned stated coldly.

"_Five hundred men_ just stood there and watched." The Lannister corrected. "Of all the great knights in the Seven Kingdoms, do you think anyone said a word, lifted a finger?" He shook his head. "No, Lord Stark. Five hundred men, and this room was as silent as a crypt. Well, except for the screaming, of course. And the Mad King laughing. And later, when I watched the Mad King die, I remembered him laughing as your father burned. It felt like _justice_." He emphasized, obviously proud of killing his previous king. Eddard, however, wasn't buying a word of it.

"So is that what you tell yourself at night? That you're a servant of justice? That you were avenging my father when you shoved your sword in Aerys Targaryen's back?" He scoffed.

"Tell me, if I had stabbed him in the belly, instead of the back, would you admire me more?" Jaime asked, anger seeping into his voice. Ned just stared back, then gave a parting shot as he continued walking to the small council chambers.

"You served him well, when serving was _safe_."

A short time later, he reached the council chambers, with the other primary members of the council already sitting in their seats. Well, minus the Master of Ships and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, of course. A plump, short, bald man was the first to greet Ned.

"Lord Stark." He said generously, his voice reminding one of a song bird. Ned took his hand and shook it.

"Lord Varys." He greeted back to the Master of Whispers, the spymaster of the Seven Kingdoms. It was said that Varys' nickname of "The Spider" was well-earned, having eyes and ears in nearly every corner of the globe.

"We are so sorry to hear of your troubles on the Kingsroad. We are all praying for Prince Joffrey's full recovery." Varys said, his face full of sympathy, though from what Eddard could tell it was probably faked. "Aye." Ned began. "Too bad you didn't pray for the butcher's son." He let go of Varys hand and walked to the other council members. Ned smiled when he saw the next man. "Renly!" He greeted Robert's youngest brother, who pulled him in a hug. "You're looking well."

"And you look tired from the road." Renly japed back, his smile full of mirth and amusement. "I told my brother this meeting could wait another day-." He began saying before being cut off by another council member.

"But we have a kingdom to look after." Eddard traced the voice to the other end of the table, and mentally groaned when he saw the last person in the world he would trust. He was just as tall as Ned, though not as well-built. He had a jet black mustache and thin goatee, which like his hair, were beginning to gray with age. "I have been waiting to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has made some mention to you of me." Eddard smiled while he threw his cape over his chair. "She has, Lord Baelish." He said as he sat down. "I understand that you knew my brother, Brandon, as well." Lord Baelish smiled back, though his eyes did not smile with his mouth. "All too well. I still carry a token of his esteem, from navel, to collarbone." He said, tracing a line from his midsection to his shoulder.

"Well perhaps you chose the wrong man to duel with." Ned japed. Petyr just still flashed his smile. "Well it wasn't the man I chose, Lord Stark. It was Catelyn Tully, a woman worth fighting for, I'm sure you'd agree." Eddard was about to reply when the eldest member of the council spoke up.

"I humbly beg, your pardon, Lord Stark." The last elderly member of the council halfway mumbled out.

"Grand Maester." Ned greeted back to the head of the Order of Maesters. Pycelle glanced up at him with droopy eyes, as if trying to remember the Warden of the North's face.

"How many years has it been? You were a young man when I last saw you."

"And you served a different king." Ned stated as he sat down at his seat, which was marked with the Hand of the King's symbol.

"Shall we get down to it, then?" Littlefinger rhetorically asked.

"Not before King Robert gets here." Ned stated. Renly scoffed and Littlefinger chuckled.

"I must have missed something." Ned said with a confused look on his face.

"His Grace has left such matters in our hands, while he goes off doing his own thing." Renly stated bitterly.

"I'll have a word with him later." Ned replied irritably. Already he was hating his new job with much passion.

And in the next few moments, he would learn to hate it even more.

"The Kings commands that we throw a tournament in your honor within the fortnight, Lord Stark." Renly stated dryly. "Three hundred gold dragons for the winner of the joust, two hundred for mêlée, one hundred for archery, and fifty each for the runner-up."

"How are we all supposed to pay for this?" Eddard questioned, knowing the cost of a huge tournament like this would likely be absurdly enormous.

"That's not a problem, I'll just have to borrow another twenty thousand gold from the Lannisters." Littlefinger said, scratching his head while he thought. "That will be on top of the three million we owe Lord Tywin already." Eddard had to stop Lord Baelish right there. He just couldn't believe it.

"Are you saying the crown is three million in debt?" He asked incredulously, not really wanting to believe his lifelong friend would have bankrupted the entire kingdom whoring. What Littlefinger said next floored him.

"No, I'm saying the Crown is _six million_ in debt; half of that is to the Lannisters, the other is to the Iron Bank of Braavos."

Ned was now infuriated. "I refuse to believe Jon Arryn just let this happen!" He was on the verge of finding Robert and yelling at him for being such an idiot as to let this happen.

"Lord Arryn often gave his grace prudent and wise advice." Pycelle counseled. "Advice his grace did not always listen to, I'm afraid." He said, calming Ned down only a tad bit. Renly took the opportunity to speak. "Even if Littlefinger found the money to pay for the operation, there is another problem. The City Watch won't have the personnel to provide security for the event." He pointed out. Ned grunted at this. Frankly, he'd wish Robert didn't throw a party in his honor, and just set about the task he meant to do here. But then again, Robert was one of the most stubborn people he knew, and would move mountains just to get what he wanted.

"In my humble opinion," Ned began. "We shouldn't even be _having_ this tourney. But, I'll send thirty of my household guard to reinforce the city watch." After a few more rounds of discussion of the matters of the tourney, the small council adjourned for the day. Before he left, however, Ned caught Pycelle.

"Grand Maester, I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you?" The Grand Maester nodded his elderly head. "I was wondering if Jon Arryn spoke to you any before you died."

Pycelle shook his head, but then paused to remember something. "Well, he did ask for a book."

Ned stopped in his tracks. "A book? What sort of book?" He asked the Grand Maester, who just waved it away.

"Oh, it was nothing worthy of note. Just _The Histories of the Houses of Westeros_. I have no idea why he requested to read it." Ned thought to himself for a few moments.

_This could be the key to unlocking the mystery of Jon's death_.

With firm resolve in his eyes, Ned asked the Grand Maester a simple question.

"May I see that book?"

* * *

**Sansa**

_It's all his fault_, she thought bitterly while eating at the dinner table with her father, her sister, Septa Mordane, Ansalf, and the object of her ire, Erik. And in her mind, it was all his fault. He had injured her golden prince, her sweet Joffrey, out of some cruel spite he had for him. And to her, Arya was to blame, too. If she hadn't been by that river with that stupid butcher's boy, her sweet prince would not have been hurt. And so she was now refusing to look at any of them, including her father, who executed Nymeria despite their pleading. She pushed the food around with her fork, not really interested in eating anything. Ansalf was discussing in hushed tones with her father about something important. She didn't really pay any attention to it, save for snippets about her bastard half-brother Jon, the Wall, and something about a demon. Her attention was drawn next to her, where Arya was stabbing the table with her butter knife. She looked at her strange, un-ladylike sibling.

"What on earth are you doing?" She asked horrifically. Arya glared at her and continued. "I'm practicing for the Prince." She said, continuing on stabbing the table. "And for the Queen, and the Hound…" Sansa couldn't believe what she was hearing from her brat sister. Fortunately for her, their father intervened.

"Arya, that's enough!" He spoke loudly enough for his point to get across. "Go upstairs and wait for me." He commanded. Arya just grunted and left her plate on the table. Now with Arya gone, however, the septa turned her old gaze to her.

"My dear, you've hardly touched your plate." She said concerned.

"I'm not hungry." Sansa said with as much spite as she could muster in her voice. Before the Septa could yell at her, Eddard held his hand up. He reached into the bag next to him, and pulled out a small package. He handed it to Sansa, who looked at her father with confused blue eyes.

"What is this?" She asked, turning over the package with her hands. Her father smiled.

"Open it." He said, nodding toward the package in her hands. She unwrapped the package, and held her present in her hands.

It was a doll, dressed up in a little silk, purple dress.

"Do you like it?" Ned asked his daughter imploringly. Sansa just rolled her eyes at her father.

"I haven't played with dolls since I was eight, father." She stated, putting the doll down. "May I be excused from the table, now?" She asked.

"But you've barely eaten a thing, my dear." The septa observed. Ned held his hands up to silence any more discussion between the two. "It's quite alright. You may leave." He said putting his hands on his face. Sansa got out of her seat and headed down to her room for some privacy. As soon as she reached her bed about five minutes later, she laid down on the mattress. About fifteen minutes after, however, she heard a knock on the door.

"Enter." She said irritably, not really wanting company now. She got up and turned her head to the door, and Erik stepped through, dressed in night clothing. He had a sorrowful look on his face.

"What do you want?" She asked, a little more spitefully than she intended. Erik had a look of hurt on his face for a moment before it passed and then he proceeded to speak.

"I just wanted to talk to you, about that day on the road." She rolled her eyes. Of course he would want to speak about that. How could he not understand what he did was wrong? He had laid hands on a member of the Royal Family, and her _betrothed_ no less.

"What is it there to say?" She said, glaring at him. "You hurt the Prince."

"Because he was going to kill your sister!" He stated angrily, causing Sansa to jump back, surprised that someone so gentle has him had a voice like that. He took a few breathes, and then continued. "Think about it, my lady. If he was willing to kill your sister, and he was, what makes you think that he'd treat you any better?" He asked, boring his hazel colored eyes into Sansa's sea blue ones. Now she was infuriated. He was no better than her sister when it came to Joffrey!

"Why can't _you_ see that she was the one that caused it?" She asked. "He was just taking us for a walk!"

Erik laughed, bitterly. "Oh, Sansa." He said, a sad smile creeping on his face. "I may be only four years your elder, but even in my two years under Anslaf, I've seen the face of evil." A chill went down Sansa's spine as his look became haunted. "Evil can come in many, _many_, forms. I've seen it in the form of a man in my hometown, who'd get drunk every night and beat his little girls, while the guards who were supposed to uphold the law turned a blind eye toward their suffering." He shed a tear. "I just want you to be careful. You are far too beautiful and kind to have your ideals crushed." Sansa then felt a tear rolling down her cheek at his compliment. Erik turned around to head out the door, but then turned back.

"By the way, Sansa, my master told me not to tell you this, and your sister already knows of this, but," He drew a deep breath. "Your father did not kill Nymeria, as you were told earlier. I found a dead wolf to fool the Queen, and your father secretly sent a detachment north to escort your sister's wolf." He then turned back around and walked out the door, leaving a blue winter rose on Sansa's nightstand. As soon as he shut the door behind him, Sansa walked over to the nightstand. Behind her, Lady perked up her ears, and started to wag her tail, indicating her approval of the young man from Tamriel. Sansa smiled at her direwolf, and smelled the sweet scent of the flower.

Both of them were unaware of the eyes that watched them approvingly, peeping in from the circular balcony.

* * *

**Hey there. So yeah, I said I was going to do a Tyrion POV as well. But I also really wanted to get a Sansa viewpoint in as well, and explain a little of Ansalf's backstory. God, so many POV's. I'm thinking of doing a Decius pov next, as well as one for Bran and Dany. Possibly a Jon Snow POV or an Arya one as well. Probably gonna have to divide those up into two chapters, then. Oh well. Oh, and Brienne of Tarth is in the new Star Wars film! Yay!**


	9. The Two Dragons

The Two Dragons

* * *

**Decius**

**27 Last Seed, Imperial camp, unnamed island a hundred miles off the west coast of Westeros.**

* * *

It was already around three o'clock in the afternoon when the Legate finally had a chance to sit down in his command tent. It had been the same thing for the past two months; wake up, shave, conduct morning PT, eat breakfast, visit his troops conducting training, go over the Dragonborn's reports and letters, and so on and so forth. He was now at his field desk, reading over Anslaf's latest report. According to the Blackwolf, it seemed so far that the Starks were the only ones who were taking this threat of the Others seriously, apart from the Night's Watch of course. Everyone else in Westeros either had their heads stuck in the sand, or just plain didn't care. He had also written to him of some dark happenings within King's Landing itself. Decius now knew that an unseen foe was moving to take the crown, and from what Anslaf suggested, the Lannisters seemed poised to install Robert's son, Joffrey, as a puppet ruler, but from what he could gather, Joffrey seemed unstable and unsuited for ruling.

Honestly, Decius didn't care for political intrigue and backstabbing plots. He preferred to meet the enemy out in the open, and defeat him using strategy, tactics, and above all, logistics.

Which brought him to the current problems he faced.

Depending on the severity of the situation, Decius expected to stay in Westeros for months, years if the situation warranted such action. And the current situation with supplies did not help. Ships carrying food for his horses and men were slowing down to a trickle, in order to redirect them to the soldiers that were preparing for war with the Dominion. Which meant that if he wanted to keep his men adequately supplied and in fighting shape, he was either going to have to find a means of shortening his supply lines, or be forced to severely ration his remaining, and dwindling, supplies. And in the back of his mind, raiding would be considered an absolute last resort. He buried his head in his hands, contemplating this logistical nightmare when he heard the flap to the tent open. He looked up and saw Herman take the seat across the table from him, which was full of maps, documents, reports, and receipts from the legion quartermaster.

"Still trying to figure out the supply issue, sir?" Herman asked, though it was more a statement than an actual question. Decius sighed, and uncorked a bottle of Colovian brandy. He poured a glass for himself and Herman, and took a sip.

"Less of an issue and more of a top-grade cluster-fuck." Decius stated exasperantly. "If we weren't having this current issue with the Dominion right now, we would've have all the supplies and men we needed to thrive in Westeros for _twenty_ years. Instead, I'm wondering how we're going to make it through the winter in that gods' forsaken continent." His fears were not without reason. The Westerosi winter season was brutal, lasting anywhere from half a year to a decade, and the snows in the north often accumulated into forty foot deep snow drifts, enough to completely bury a small castle. And if the predictions made by the Dragonborn were correct, winter would come in about two years, and with it the White Walkers.

"We could always get our supplies from the Stormies." Herman pointed out. Decius snorted. "As if High King Samir would give supplies to the men who he thought killed his father." He derided, referring to the twenty year old monarch of the north, Samir Stormcloak, who had married Queen Elisif as part of a peace deal brokered by the Dragonborn after the death of Ulfric at the Battle of Whiterun. The deal was that the province would remain part of the Empire, in turn Clan Stormcloak would remain in power in Windhelm, and special provisions would be created for the worship of Talos, which caused considerable friction with the Dominion, leading to Emperor Antonius ripping up the Concordat in front of the Grand Lord. Herman shook his head. "Sir, King Samir is not his father. He's loyal, smart, and truthful, and more importantly, he's not a fair weather friend. I see no reason that he couldn't seed food to us during our campaign here." He laughed. "Who knows? If the other Nords found out about the Dragonborn being in a war without them, they might volunteer to come over here!" Decius laughed at that, knowing that would be highly likely considering that Tamriel owes Ansalf a great debt. He then sat up straight and shoved the reports aside. He then laid out his map of Westeros. "Right now, we are here." He said, pointing to the island. "From what it looks like most likely, our allies are the Starks. Which means in the event of a war, the Dragonborn will request us to strike at the Lannisters, if all else does fail." He then pointed to the Westerlands, the mineral-rich region ruled by House Lannister. In particular, he pointed to Lannisport, a large port city that was overlooked by Casterly Rock, the mountain-fortress which was the seat of power for the Lannisters. "If we do get into a war with House of Lannister, which is the richest house here, and has the best equipped troops in the Seven Kingdoms, we may want to consider striking at the city of Lannisport. We'd divide Tywin's attention between protecting his homelands and protecting his grandson in King's Landing." He moved his finger to the circled star that marked the capital of Westeros.

"Why not just strike at King's Landing and hold the royal family hostage, then?" Herman asked his old friend. Decius took a moment to consider this, then looked at the prefect.

"I have considered this in the past, and while it would certainly force him to the negotiating table, the key factor going against us in that option is time." He said, running his hand through his short hair. "It would take us almost two more months to get to Blackwater Bay by sea, while he could just march his army down there in a quarter of the time." He paused, taking another sip of his brandy. "And if we land on the western coast, we'd still have to march almost a thousand miles in unfamiliar territory to get there, so there is a high risk he still might beat us there. Not to mention that would over extend our supply lines, more so they already are."

"What about having the frigates and ships-of-the-line strike at Lannisport, while the galleons unload us at another point?" Herman suggested. Decius paused for a moment to consider. "That could work…" he began, stroking his chin with his right hand. He then looked at the map again, and muttered to himself.

"If the Westerosi don't see what's coming for us all, then we are well and truly screwed."

* * *

**One thousand miles away….. Dothraki Sea, Essos.**

**Jorah Mormont**

* * *

The hot sun beat down on the Dothraki horde as they made their way across the plains on horseback, though to them, it mattered little. Leading this mighty host of over forty thousand freeriders and their families was none other than the proud and fierce Khal Drogo, and his Valayrian blooded _khalessi_, the beautiful and willful Daenerys Targaryen. Alongside them rode Jorah Mormont, an advisor to Daenerys and her older brother, the half-mad, incompetent Viserys, who styled himself as Viserys III Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Everyone, including Dany now, laughed at him for being such a mad fool. Khal Drogo would not follow him, even if he had married Dany because Viserys wanted an army behind his back. Jorah could see that Viserys was going to snap and try to do something drastic if it meant going back home to Westeros to regain the throne that he thought was rightfully meant for him. Jorah could only scoff. Blood right only took you so far, you had to prove yourself to be a leader of men, and Viserys clearly wasn't cut for the task. Now, Daenerys, on the other hand, she was quickly learning how to lead, even in a society which treated women as little better than pets. She and Drogo had learned to love each other, her compassion and mercy tempering his rage. It pained the exiled son of the Old Bear that he was in fact a spy in the service of Varys the Spider, sent to collect information on the Targaryen's movements in exchange for a royal pardon from King Robert, and at the same time was infatuated with the silver haired beauty beside him, riding to Vaes Dothrak, the sacred city of the normally nomadic horsemen. On the other side of him, the Khal was busy ignoring the pestering rants of Viserys, whom the Dothraki had mockingly dubbed 'the cart king'.

"_Jorah of the Andals." _Drogo began to speak to him in his native, gruff language. "_What is it like in the Land across the Posion Sea?_" he asked, using the name for the Narrow Sea that the Dothraki used. Jorah considered this for a moment. He hadn't seen Westeros since he fled from Ned Stark's wrath years ago.

"_It's a land filled with both good people and bad._" He stated. "It's_ filled with men in iron suits called knights, and khals who sit on chairs made especially for them._" He said to the Khal, in terms he might understand. Drogo nodded.

"_Any other dirts?_" He asked. Jorah tried to explain to him of the land of dragons, Akavir, and of Tamriel, or "the land of the mages," as he put to the Khal. Drogo seemed to appreciate this information, even if it seemed to also confuse him. An hour of riding later, they made it to Vaes Dothrak. Twin, clashing horse statues made up the entrance to the holy city of the Dothraki, which was made up of tents, of course. It was here that a man may not draw his blade and draw blood, or suffer the penalty of death by trampling. The biggest tent was the Khal's tent, being three times as big as the other tents in the city. Drogo took Dany off of her horse and escorted her inside, her belly already swollen up from carrying their son, Rhaego, named after her dead brother, Rhaegar Targaryen. Jorah could admit he was slightly jealous of Drogo, so he resigned himself to following the princess from afar. As soon as he got to his own tent, however, he was greeted by none other than the Beggar King himself.

"Ser Jorah." He stated without much interest. His eyes, though, glowed with a sort of mad rage. Apparently he had been arguing with his sister, and losing that argument. Every day she was standing up to her abusive elder brother more and more, taking control of the Targaryen name from him. Jorah was pround of her, as was her husband. Viserys, however, was not please. Jorah grew more and more concerned every day that Viserys was steadily losing his wits, convinced he had dragon's blood in him, following down the path that his father had treaded on with abandon, the one that saw the destruction of a three hundred year old dysnasty.

"Your Grace." Jorah replied evenly, never breaking eye contact with the Beggar King, as his left hand came to rest on his sword hilt.

"It is obvious that my _dear, sweet_ sister values your counsel more than her own brothers." Viserys stated with disgust evident in his voice. "So be a good advisor and convince her, one way or another, that Drogo needs to cross over the Narrow Sea into Westeros. The people need their king, the Dragonborn Ruler of Westeros, not some fat usurper and his whores." He commanded, his eyes dancing with madness and glee. Jorah slowly nodded. "As you command, your grace." He stated. Viserys took that as a sign of obedience and shoved his way past the older knight toward his own tent. Jorah looked after him for a while, then spat on the ground. The people didn't care who ruled over them, so long as they were left alone to work their fields and take care of their families. But they never were, were they? For each great ruler like Uriel VII Septim, there was another tyrant like Aerys waiting on the wings. Jorah pulled up a horse hide chair after undoing his belt and sat back, before a little Dothraki boy came running into his tent.

"Mister, regards from the Spider." He whispered in his broken accent before scurrying off again. Jorah looked at the letter the boy had given him, sealed with the sigil of the Spider, and opened the letter.

_My Most esteemed friend._

_Your work progresses most excellently. King Robert is most pleased by your efforts to uncover the Targaryen plot. You are very close to earning your pardon, if I do say so myself. Confirm the rumors we have heard about the Targaryen child in Daenerys' womb, and King Robert will deliver you from Eddard's sword._

_Big Bird._

Jorah groaned. He was torn on what to do. On one hand, with the information he could deliver, he would be pardoned from all past crimes. On the other, it meant betraying the woman he had come to respect, and even love. With no clear options on the table, he got out a piece of paper and a pen from his satchel, and began to write on his lap….

* * *

Bran

Winterfell, Night of 27 Last Seed.

* * *

_He calmly took an arrow from the quiver, and took aim at the target. He heard a noise behind him, startling him from his practice. He turned around, and noticed a raven. It flew off toward Winterfell's main gate. Bran quietly followed the bird to the entrance. The bird turned to face him, and Bran noticed something odd about the raven._

_It had three eyes._

_It again took off, in the direction of the godswood. He quickly gave chase after the creature, only to find that the scenery was changing rapidly. Now, instead of Winterfell, he was in a strange country, next to a wooden manse. He saw the Blackwolf without his distinctive armor on, kissing a black haired woman passionately. The scene rapidly changed to a white city, with a tower so tall it stretched into the sky. A proud man, likely in his early thirties, stood on a balcony, before hundreds of armored troops. The scene shifted again to a distant battlefield, littered with dead troops, some sporting grey and red armor, others sporting golden and maroon plate. Finally, he felt himself floating in midair, watching in awe as two warriors battled it out; one in golden armor, the other in black. As he watched the spectacle in shock, the scene shifted to that of darkness, and a pair of cold, evil blue eyes. He heard malicious laughter coming from them, before another voice called out, this one older and pleading._

"_If you want to help the Dragonborn in his quest, find me!" the voice pleaded him. Bran was confused now._

"_Find me!" the voice yelled again. Then all faded to black._

* * *

Bran woke up with a jolt. He looked around the room, and saw nothing immediately out of hand. He looked outside the windows to his room.

_Already midmorning_, he thought to himself bitterly. He threw off the covers, and grabbed his cane. He walked his way slowly down the stairs, feeling more like he was eighty than ten. He frowned at his misfortune. Why should he have been crippled like this? How did he upset the gods in order to deserve walking around with a cane for the rest of his natural life? He continued down the stairs, keeping his dark and brooding thoughts to himself, until he walked into the main hall, where Robb was standing with Master Luwin, and a very short man that the boy recognized as Lord Tyrion Lannister. Robb's normally serious face broke out into a huge smile at seeing his younger brother.

"Ah, Bran Stark!" Tyrion exclaimed. "We were just talking about you." The imp handed a scroll of paper to Luwin. "Plans for a saddle for the young lord." Luwin looked over the plans, a confused expression forming on his face. "But he cannot ride anymore." He said. Tyrion threw up his hands in the air. "Nonsense, with the right equipment and a well-trained colt, even a cripple to ride!" he proclaimed. Bran grew defensive.

"I'm NOT a cripple!" He nearly yelled at Tyrion. Tyrion just smirked, though his eyes bore sadness.

"Then I am not a dwarf, then. My father will be glad to hear it." He stated sarcastically. Bran noticed Robb eyeing the Imp suspiciously. "Why are you doing this, Lannister?"

"Because I have a soft spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things." Tyrion snapped back at Robb, who then looked like a scolded puppy, briefly hanging his head down before looking back up at Tyrion.

"Apologies, my lord." He apologized. "The hospitality of Winterfell is yours."

"Oh, please." Tyrion waved dismissively, obviously used to a lie when he saw one. "Spare me your false courtesies, Lord Stark. I know when I am unwanted." He turned and left without speaking another word, leaving the eldest son of Eddard looking flabbergasted. After the half-man left, Bran looked at his brother.

"Robb, I'm sorry for what I said the other day." He apologized, looking down at the floor. "I didn't mean the things I said, about wanting to die. I've just been so crushed as of late." He added. And it was true. To find out that you'll have to depend on a walking stick for the rest of your life, at such a young age? You would take it about as well as being stabbed through the gut, though Bran thought that at least a stabbing was quicker death. His elder brother smiled at him. "I know, Bran. And I do forgive you, even if those words were spoken out of frustration." He laid his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Things will be better, I promise." He took his hand off his shoulder, and went to speak with Maester Luwin. Bran just sighed and continued walking, leaning on his cane. According to his dream, things didn't seem okay, and had produced more questions than answers. There was only one person who could help him with something like this.

A few moments later, he had reached Colette's room. He paused for a moment, then knocked on the door.

"Enter." Came a higher-pitched, older voice. Bran opened the door, and hobbled into her room. Already in the few months she had been here, the desk that had been allocated for her was filled with papers; research material she apparently been writing for teaching back home in her homeland, which he had learned from Maester Luwin was called Skyrim, the northernmost region of Tamriel. Colette looked up from her work at Bran, and smiled at seeing the young lord up and about.

"Bran!" she exclaimed enthusiastically, motioning to a seat right beside her. "Please sit down, I was just about to see how you were feeling."

"Fine, I guess." He replied, then adopted a confused look on his face. "My lady, if I may ask, I have had a problem as of late." He saw his healers face grow concerned, her features wrinkled. "What is it?" She asked him, simply and to the point.

"Ever since I woke up, I've been having similar dreams." He began. When Colette nodded, he continued. "Last night, I dreamed of a white city, with a tower so tall it seemed to stretch into the clouds. Also in my dream, I saw a wooden manse, where I saw the Thane with another woman, with black hair. In my dream, I also saw a battlefield, littered with bodies with different armor on, and I saw two men clashing, one in black and one in gold. I also saw a shadow, blacker than night, with the scariest, pale blue eyes I've seen. I then heard a voice, calling out to come find it." He paused, trying to remember some of his other dreams. "I also dreamed of my father and my sisters before that." He shuddered. "They seemed to be crying out for help. And I dreamed of dragons, roaring as they incinerated some unseen foe." Colette looked as if she was thinking about something, then looked Bran square in the eye.

"I believe those were visions you have been experiencing." She stated flatly.

"Visions?" Bran asked. His mind was swimming with questions now.

"Yes." She said. "The city you dreamed of was the Imperial City in Cyrodill, and the tower was the White-Gold Tower, which is in the center of the city. The mansion you dreamed of was Lakeview Manor, Anslaf's home, and the woman you saw him with was his wife, Serana." She paused, gaging his face for a reaction before continuing. "As for the other parts, that would be more difficult. The battlefield might be one of the past, such as the Great War, or it might be an upcoming war. The two dueling shadows, I have no clue for that." She paused to question him. "How many dragons did you see in your dream?" Bran thought to himself for a moment. "Three." He answered. "Three dragons."

"Could it be the Empire they are referring to?" Colette mused out loud, then recalled a symbol printed in her guide book. The sigil was that of a dragon in a sort of circle shape, bearing three heads on its body.

"It can't be." She shook her head. "The Targaryen line died out a generation ago, I was told. Why on earth would you be dreaming of them?" She asked. "And a black shadow with pale blue eyes? It could mean Molag Bal, but I am unsure. And then there is the matter of the mysterious voice, telling you to find him." She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Bran. I wish there was more I could tell you. I am but a simple healer, not an interpreter." Bran sighed in defeat. "Thank you for your help, anyway, my lady." He got up and hobbled his way out of her room, shutting the door before she had the chance to say anything. His mind kept on replaying the final part of his dream.

_Find me._

Whatever it meant, Bran rationalized as Summer came up alongside him, it had a sense of urgency attached to it. And he couldn't shake this ominous, foreboding feeling in his mind that something terrible was on its way.

And there was nothing anybody could do to prevent it.

* * *

**Another Chapter done, about a million more to go. XD. Finally managed to see what the Targaryens were up to, even if it was from the viewpoint of Captain Friendzone himself. So what does Bran's dream mean? I'm not telling, yet. Up next, more douchebaggery and dickishness.**

**By the way, The Star Wars EU has been declared non-canon, save for the nine films, the TV-series, and stuff directly related to the cinema. So that means Revan didn't exist from the viewpoint of JJ and crew, only as source material. I find that sad. Oh well.**


	10. The Night's King Cometh

**A/N: I had to do a revision of this chapter based on last night's episode of Game of Thrones, and new information about the Night's King that was revealed to us, namely that he was rumored to be the brother of Brandon "The Breaker" Stark.**

The Night's King Cometh

**Benjen**

**28 Last Seed, 204 4E/298 AL. Somewhere in the Lands of Always Winter, Westeros.**

He had lost track of time after his patrol had been slaughtered by the White Walkers. He didn't even remember where he exactly was, anymore. All he knew was his name, his mission, and the fact that he didn't seem to be affected by the biting cold anymore, despite the fact the snow was blinding him. The wind and the darkness of night had seemed to make it worse, for he was barely able to see five feet in front of him. He stumbled his way through the darkness and the snow, not stopping to eat, or drink, or take shelter, for he did not need those things anymore.

He knew that he was already undead. He knew it when he awoke after the attack and did not feel his heart beat anymore. He knew it when he looked at his hands, blackened, but not cold. And he knew it when he had looked at his reflection, and no longer saw his coal grey eyes looking back at him, but instead a set of bright, crystal blue eyes.

And he knew, to his eternal dismay and sorrow, that he could never go back home, for the Wall was warded with magic designed to deter the Others and their undead minions. So, now, here he was, lost in the snow, tracking these White Walkers who turned him into a walking corpse. So far, they had not seemed to actually notice him, oblivious to the wight they had created as they marched to their home, somewhere in this blinding winter weather. While tracking them, Benjen mulled over a thought in his head. He had seen both of his friends also turned into wights, yet he had been the only one to keep his will and mind intact in un-death, while they had become mindless slaves of the White Walkers.

_So what is keeping me this way? _He thought as he moved through the drifts. It had to be some kind of divine power, he rationalized. Perhaps, since the old gods' powers were said to be far stronger here, they had saved him for a higher purpose. What that purpose was, he had no clue, but hopefully it would become clear, and either he would be allowed to return home, or reunite with his sweet sister again. He found a boulder to take cover behind, and peeked out to continue observing his targets. The group of three walkers rode their rotten, undead horses into an evil looking mountain, its primary cave entrance shaped like a gaping maw. He also noted the weather had stopped, and the night was now clear, too clear.

It startled the veteran ranger that he could see neither of the twin moons in the night sky, nor any star. Only a pitch blackness made up the sky, along with the northern lights, which gave off a yellow hue, making this place even more foreboding and grim. He swiftly covered the distance between the boulder and the entrance, moving as silently as he could.

_What are you cold-blooded bastards up to?_ He thought as he moved into their fortress, taking careful note of everything around him. Eerie blue lights dimly lit up the cavernous hallway, which branched off into different hallways as well, as he noted. He continued following his targets to the center of the cavern, a massive throne room, shaped as a semi-circle. Huge stone pillars supported the massive weight of the room, arranged in conjunction with the shape of the room. At the very end of the throne room was a massive throne entirely made of some kind of supernatural ice, making the Iron Throne itself look like an everyday dinner chair. He hid behind one of the stone pillars closest to the entrance, and observed what the Others were doing. He saw them approach the throne, stop about five feet in front of it, and promptly bowed to the figure on the throne. The figure sitting on the icy throne was enormous, standing at a mind-boggling eight feet tall, even bigger than Ser Gregor Clegane himself. The giant 'man' was covered from shoulder to toe in pitch black armor, with the same eerie blue glow that lit the hallways emitting from the gaps in his armor. His facial features looked gaunt, just like the White Walkers, but unlike the pale bluish-grey skin tone the Others possessed, his skin was as white as the snow itself. His bald head was covered in a ring of horns protruding from his skull. Benjen summarized from where he hid that this then must be their leader. The leader of the Others spoke to his minions, in a deep, dark voice that chilled Benjen the bone.

"Why have you disturbed me?" The leader rumbled, apparently displeased at being brought out of a meditative trace, as Benjen realized by the creature's closed eyelids as he snuck closer to get a better view.

"Our forays into the human tribe's territories are continuing to succeed, dreadful one." The leader of the patrol began, his voice filled with what Benjen had guessed to be a mixture of fear and respect. "Every day, we add even more of the undead to our mighty ranks. And the human kingdoms to the south of the Wall are oblivious to us, preferring instead to bicker and fight among themselves. We will catch them unawares." He declared triumphantly. The one sitting on the throne finally opened his eyes, an unhindered malice that would sent even the bravest of mortals cowering evident in those cold blue orbs. He rose from this throne, his full height making him seem even more intimidating. The patrol leader bowed further down, not wanting to look into the malevolent gaze of his master. The giant Other took a few steps toward his cowering minion, and spoke in a calm, deadly tone.

"You withhold information from me." He simply stated, with the unspoken threat of death hanging in the air. His servant spoke with much trepidation in his voice now, obviously knowing of his fate. "We attacked a patrol of three Night's Watch earlier, my king." Benjen started to place the pieces together. This massive Walker was obviously a monarch of some sort; that was much clear. But who exactly was he?

"Speak sense."

"We slew them all easily enough, my liege. But when we resurrected the bodies, there were only two. We didn't spot the other body." The other White Walker spoke, panic seeping into his voice. The leader's visage contorted for a moment, but then he apparently relaxed his features in realization, and laughed, though it was a one without mirth or joy.

"It seems we have a visitor, my friends." He said, looking toward the pillar Benjen was hiding behind, to his horror. "Your nobility has blinded you as ever, _human_." With that, Benjen rolled out of his hiding spot, notched an arrow into his bow, and took aim at the giant being.

He never got a shot off.

Benjen felt himself flying in the air, toward the king of the White Walkers, who had his hand stretched out in a 'pulling' motion. He stopped in mid-air, about a pace from where his opponent stood, unable to move, though trying to break free from the dark lord's invisible grip. The giant White Walker snarled at him, his pointed teeth visible, and his eyes danced with cold hatred.

"So you must be the missing wight." He observed, smirking at Benjen. "Impressive you were able to retain control of your soul and your mind, though I sense that another being was also behind this." He shrugged, while still maintaining his telekinetic hold on the ranger. "It matters not. You have sought answers, and you shall have them. Do you know who I am?" As Benjen could not answer do to his struggling, he answered for him. "I was once like you, once. The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, sworn to protect the realm. But then I was _betrayed_, by my own brother and his allies. Stormed my keep, and drove me up here, cursed never to return." He spat viciously. At that moment, Benjen realized to his horror what stood in front of him.

"Night's…King!" He managed to stammer out.

"Yes." The Night's King said, now maliciously grinning like a demon. "But my real name was Jon Stark the Second, a Lord of Winterfell. A Stark, just like you were." He let go of Benjen, dropping him unceremoniously on the ground. "But now I am the Night's King, Noctis Rex, servant to the Daedric Lord Molag Bal." He approached Benjen menacingly. "And now, brood of my enemy, you shall meet your ancestors." Noctis drew his wicked-looking stahlrim sword, and raised it over his head, in order to send Benjen to the afterlife. Benjen closed his eyes, making peace with the world as he prepared mentally. Before the Night's King could land his blow however, a loud rumble was heard, and felt, throughout the mountain. Suddenly, a giant, snow white tree root shot up from the ground, knocking him off balance and crashing on the ground. The other White Walkers stood there in complete shock, unable to comprehend what had happened. Benjen shakily stood up, and just as Noctis and his minions were starting to get their bearings straight. Benjen heard a voice in his head.

_Run, you fool of a Stark! Run!_

Benjen had no time to question the voice in his head as he took off, running as fast as his legs could carry him toward the exit.

"AFTER HIM, YOU FOOLS!" Noctis yelled after him, and Benjen pushed himself further, desperately trying to make it to the exit. When he saw the long hallway give out into the cold, clear night, he could breathe a sigh of relief. He kept running, though, all too aware of the now vengeful Others on his tail, and he had no weapons that could harm them. He looked back a moment too long, and ran right into a large, hairy mammal, plowing him on the ground. When he got up, he saw a pair of big, brown eyes staring intently at him.

"I'll be a Lannister's bitch…" He muttered under his breath as he took note of the moose in front of him. The large antlered creature whined, jerking its head toward the south.

"You want me to ride you?" He asked the moose, who responded by licking him. Benjen had no time to object, as he heard the shrill war cries of the Walkers. He hoped on to the moose, grabbing it by its long hairs, and held on for dear un-life as the moose took off in a southward direction.

About two hours later, they stopped near a giant wierwood tree, larger than any heart tree Benjen had saw before; it was twice the size of the gods' tree in Winterfell. Beneath the tree was a large opening in the ground, indicating some kind of cavern underneath the tree. Benjen dismounted the moose and began walking toward the cave entrance. As soon as tried to set foot inside the cave, however, intense pain shot up through his left leg and spread throughout his person. He immediately jerked his leg back, a cry of agony escaping his lips.

"No one who is undead can enter here, Benjen Stark. Not even those as noble as you." An old, tired sounding voice spoke from behind him. Benjen turned around, startled, and drew his sword. Now in front of him was an apparition, a ghostly figure of an old man in black maester's robes. His wrinkled head was bald, and he had a thick, white beard covering his face. The ranger cautiously lowered his sword. "Forgive my surprise, old…man." He said, trying to choose the right words to describe what appeared in front of him. "I just didn't expect anything else to be out here. Well, anything nice enough not to kill me, again." He apologized. "So, are you also stuck out here, old man?" He asked, obviously aware that this old mad was dead. What he said next should have shocked him, but after all that happened, he was starting to believe anything, now.

"No, Benjen Stark, I am not dead. I am merely projecting an image of myself that would seem most comfortable to you. The real me is now partnered with the tree, or rather, I am part of the tree, and it a part of me." He pointed out, waving his hand toward the massive heart tree behind Benjen. Benjen just slowly nodded. "So I take it you're the one who rescued me from Noctis." He stated.

"Yes." The old man confirmed. "I have been watching over the realm, and your family in particular, for over a century now, Benjen. But now my powers wane, and my life, though it was extended by the blessings of the old gods, grow weak, while Noctis' strength grows steadily." He confessed. Benjen laughed bitterly. "Even if Noctis could gather an army of a million wights and a hundred thousand White Walkers, he still cannot cross over or under the Wall." He pointed out. The Wall, as he recalled, wasn't just made out of ice and stone. It was also constructed with a powerful form of ancient magic, as he recalled, designed to keep out the Others and their undead. There was no way that even the Night's King could cross without being burned to a cinder.

"He's looking for the Horn of Joramun." The old man warned Benjen. The former ranger's blood ran cold at the mention of that weapon. According to ancient myth, the Horn of Joramun was a mighty war horn, as big as a full grown man, capable of waking giants from their slumber and blasting apart even the mightiest of fortifications with one blast. It was even the only thing rumored to be powerful enough to collapse the Wall.

"If he's found that horn…" Benjen began.

"He would use it to destroy the only thing standing between him and Westeros." The old man finished. "Which is why I need your help now, Benjen Stark. I have foreseen that Noctis can be stopped, but it requires a few key people, you yourself will help one of them."

"Who are they?" Benjen asked, intrigued by the ghost.

"Many people of many backgrounds. The central figure, a scion of ice and fire himself. The one who seeks to guide him, a hero with the soul of a dragon. Another one of the dragonblood I saw, with three dragons in tow. A little lion, the wolves of the North, a priestess of the fire god. I can go on and on with who's who in this story, but you need only concern yourself with only one." The apparition stated.

"Who is it?" The undead ranger asked the ghostly man.

"The boy who will come and replace me. He will be central in this final battle. You must guide him unto me and protect him with all your might, all your powers, and your very life, if it must come to that." He revealed, though Benjen got the uneasy feeling that this old man liked his suprises. "But you must not reveal yourself to him." The old man warned. "When you meet this boy, he will not recognize you, and if he does, he might insist that you return with him. You must use a different name when you speak with him." Benjen now eyed the old man suspiciously. This…projection…was being elusive on purpose. But, defeating the Night's King was the bigger priority right now. After that, he and the old man were going to have some words.

"A different name, eh?" He asked sardonically, and then looked at his cold, blackened hands. A thought came to him, an idea. Yes, that was the _perfect_ name to describe him. Benjen looked back at the elderly spirit, new, cold determination driving him.

"I've chosen a name." Benjen stated with cold clarity, while the old man just raised an eyebrow.

"Coldhands."

**Sorry this chapter has taken me so long to get out. I've just started college, and I've got homework, bills, rent…. Arrgggh. I'll try to get the next one out within the week, but I guarantee nothing. Oh, and I need inspiration for an upcoming battle between two foes with a force on force ration of 2 to 1. Suggestions are welcome. Up next, Arya and her 'Dancing', Jon being emo, and trouble at the crossroads. See ya.**


	11. The Wolf and the Lion

The Wolf and the Lion

* * *

**Morning, 2 Hearthfire, 4E 204/298 AL. Red Keep, King's Landing, Crownlands.**

**Arya**

* * *

"Don't watch my eyes, young one. The eyes can deceive, but the body cannot." Syrio Forel warned his young student after he had landed another successful blow on Arya, who was trying to pick up her mentor's lessons in earnest. Already the little she-wolf had learned how to be quicker on her feet, and treat her blade as an extension of herself. From the corner, the Blackwolf and her father watched intently, while silently whispering things to each other. She went on the attack and feinted left, trying to catch Syrio off guard and hit him with a quick right cut. The veteran water dancer saw through the feint, and quickly parried Arya's wooden sword away from him. Arya quickly jumped back from his counter swing, and thrust forward. She overextended, however, and Syrio sidestepped the thrust. He then swung his blade down, stopping only when he had reached the back of Arya's neck.

"Dead." He grinned at his student, who grimaced. "You made a good attempt at a feint, my young student. But you overextended on the thrust." He instructed. "Try not to lean forward so much when thrusting. You will find that standing on two feet is far more successful than one." It was at that moment that Anslaf cleared his throat.

"Arya?" He inquired. "If you don't mind, I'd like to spar some with your mentor. I haven't had the honor of dueling a Braavosi Water Dancer before, and I honestly had never learned the technique before. It would be interesting to compare my own to his." He asked. Arya looked at her mentor, who just shrugged, as if saying he didn't mind. She then handed her wooden practice sword to Anslaf, and walked toward the doorway to stand by her father.

The two warriors gave each other a salute with their swords, and started to circle around each other, each taking different ready positions. While Syrio held his sword out in front of him, nearly perpendicular to his body, Anslaf held his sword at a low ready position, angled down and away. Syrio struck first, giving a quick thrust to Anslaf's midsection. The Blackwolf parried the strike, and quickly aimed a swipe at the Braavosi's neck. Syrio blocked the wooden blade with his own, and Anslaf quickly went on the offensive, forcing Syrio to take up an increasingly stressed defense against the Nord's fast, powerful strikes of the Akaviri style of swordplay. Soon, however, Anslaf broke off his attack, and immediately switched to the defensive, letting Syrio thrust and swing using his precision strikes the water dancers so often favored. Arya was confused about this, and turned to her father.

"What is he doing?" she asked with genuine intrigue. "He had Syrio right where he wanted him!"

"He's testing Syrio's form, trying to judge whether he'd be better on the offensive or the defensive." Her father replied calmly, also intrigued by Anslaf's methods. Soon, the two swordsmen became blurs of motion to Arya, thrusting, parrying, blocking, and slashing too fast for her eyes to track. They looked as if they were whirlwinds of death, lost in their own motions. As quick as it began, however, it ended. Before Syrio had his blade on the Blackwolf's throat, Anslaf already had his on Syrio's neck.

"Dead." Ansalf japed, a huge grin forming on the mouths of both opponents. They both withdrew their swords and bowed in a sign of respect toward one another. Arya was amazed, she had never seen _anyone_ move that fast with a blade before, not even her brothers. And by the looks of it, her father looked impressed as well.

"Where did you learn to move that fast?" Ned asked him, evidently amazed at Anslaf's speed. "Not even the Kingslayer can move that quick, and he's one of the best knights in the Seven Kingdoms."

Anslaf chuckled at the question. "Well…let's just say that I'm a rather _quick_ learner." Arya narrowed her eyes at the Tamrielan. She obviously counted him among her list of friends, of course, but she suspected that he was hiding a big secret from everybody in the Stark household, or everyone in Westeros, for that matter. Ansalf broke the silence. "Well, I hate to be a bother to everyone here, but don't we have a tournament to attend, Lord Stark?"

Her father just kind of set his jaw, and nodded hesitantly. She knew well that her father had no love for southern customs, and frankly she could care less herself. But her sister loved to see all the knights in their shining armor, prancing about like roosters, and the songs of honor and chivalry and damsels in distress. It was nearly enough to make her throw up. It was a good thing, then, that she wasn't attending.

"Arya, you're coming along with us. And no fighting with your sister while in the stands." Her father ordered. Arya huffed out a "Yes, father", before brushing past him to change into a much hated dress for the occasion.

* * *

**Anslaf, two hours later**

* * *

_Why does it seem almost every time I go to a celebration, some poor dumb bastard is sent to the gods?_ Ansalf thought as two men dragged Ser Hugh's lifeless corpse away.

So far, in Anslaf's opinion, the jousting portion of the tourney had come off to a terrible start. In the opening round, Ser Hugh of the Vale had been pitted against the hulking monstrosity of a human, the term being used in its loosest sense possible, called Ser Gregor Clegane, aptly nicknamed the Mountain That Rides. The Mountain seemed in a particularly foul mood that day, and had shoved his lance into Hugh's throat during their joust, breaking it off in the process, and leaving Ser Hugh to die a slow and painful death as he gurgled blood for more than half a minute. The audience had mostly been shocked and horrified, all except for members of the royal family it seemed. Robert had only hung his head in apparent disgust, Cersei just looked indifferent, and the most disturbing reaction had come from Joffrey, who smiled rather too gleefully at the grim spectacle.

_Gods forbid that one ever become King of all Westeros, for this land and others will drown in a sea of blood if that shall pass._ Anslaf thought. He had hoped that it would not come to pass, but from what his spies had informed him about, it seemed that the Queen was moving all the pieces into place for her pompous son's ascension to the throne. Whatever was going down in King's Landing, it would go down sooner rather than later.

"Do they have tourneys in Tamriel?"

As so it happened, Arya was sitting right next to him, with Sansa, Eddard, and Erik seated two rows below them. Ansalf turned to the little she-wolf.

"In High Rock, yes they do, although that's more due to the Bretons being more culturally influenced by the Andals than anything else." He stated. And it was true. In Cyrodiil, the primary form of entertainment was still the gladiator fights in the arenas in Cyrodiilic cities, most notably in the Imperial Coliseum in Imperial City, and pit fighting also seemed to be popular in Essos as well. Chariot and horse racing were very popular throughout every province in the Empire. Professional boxing and drinking contests were the prime pastimes of his native homeland. In Valenwood, archery competitions seemed to be an all-round favorite. And from the Altmer came various symphonies and orchestras. Plays were popular no matter where you went. The announcer interrupted his train of thought with the announcement of the jousting semifinals.

"In the first round of the semi-final tilt, Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden will joust Ser Gregor Clegane of Clegane's Keep. May you both ride with the favor of the gods." The two opponents met each other near the center of the two lanes, and Anslaf noticed something very peculiar going on with Gregor's horse.

_Loras, you sneaky bastard, you. Your mare is in heat, and Gregor's stallion is losing focus._ Ansalf realized as Gregor's steed whinnied and chomped at the bit. The two riders made their way towards their starting positions after a brief, tense moment.

"A hundred gold dragons on the Mountain!" Ansalf heard Lord Baelish exclaim to Lord Renly, who just smiled back at the Master of Coin. "I'll take that bet."

"And what would I buy with a hundred gold dragons?" Littlefinger playfully stated.

"Who knows? You might even buy a friend, Lord Baelish!" Renly shot back, to which Petyr gave a mock bow and sat back down. A second trumpet sounded the beginning of the list. The two riders, having made their way toward their respective starting positions, lowered their lances, and charged full speed at each other. As Loras's mare got closer, Gregor's stallion went wild. The erratic horse cost Gregor dearly, as he was knocked clean off his steed. The crowd roared its approval, as Ser Loras removed his helm and waved to the crowd, blowing kisses to all the young ladies in the court.

"Such a shame, Littlefinger!" Anslaf heard Renly exclaim. "It would have been so nice for you to have a friend!"

"And tell me, Lord Renly…" Petyr began, enjoying the mockery. "When will you be having _your _friend?" Anslaf saw the smile wither and die upon Renly's lips, as the youngest of the Baratheon's sulked at the insinuation of his relationship with Loras Tyrell. Just then, the crowd starting gasping and screaming. Anslaf looked in the direction of Arya's wide-eyed stare, and saw that the Mountain had gotten ahold of his massive greatsword and cut his stallion's head off with one swipe. The enraged beast of a man then advanced on a clueless Loras, pulling him off of his mare, and began to swing at the now frightened knight, who was barely blocking the heavy one-handed blows with his wooden shield. Sandor, who was watching from the stands, jumped over the railing, his own broad sword raised, and blocked Gregor's final strike on Ser Loras, saving the young man's life.

"Leave him be!" The Hound snarled at his older brother, whose face contorted in rage at seeing him. Thus the two brothers began their own deadly dance, though this fight was more like a dog fight than a ballet in Ansalf's mind, as the two brothers hated each other with an unfathomable passion. It honestly reminded him somewhat of the relationship between himself and his former brother. As they both continued their fatal duel, the King, it had seemed, had finally had enough.

"STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!"

Sandor turned and bent his knee, barely missing Gregor's swing at his neck by mere inches. The Mountain, red-faced and grunting, threw down his massive sword, and sauntered off the field, no one attempting to stop the beast of a man. Ser Loras came up and thanked Sandor, who muttered something that the Blackwolf didn't quite make out. Loras raised the Hound's right arm, and the crowd went wild, cheering "Hound, Hound, Hound!" As he gazed at the stern, burned face of the 'savior', Anslaf felt a twang of pity for the Hound, for in many ways, Sandor Clegane reminded himself of whom he had once been; a cold, nearly emotionless killer only interested in coin, and revenge against a man whom had betrayed him. In a lot of ways, his journeys as Dragonborn had changed him into a better man than he was in the aftermath of his surrogate father's death. But it was meeting Serana that had mostly filled the hole of pain left after his father's demise and his brother's betrayal, though scars of that pain were still present. The joust was supposed to go on another round, but King Robert declared right on the spot that Sandor had won the jousting portion of the tourney.

* * *

**Mid-afternoon, undisclosed tavern**

* * *

Anslaf spotted Syrene in her usual stall at the tavern, tucked away in a corner, hidden away from prying eyes. With her were the thieves Etienne, Cyric, Rune, and Thrynn. Every one of them, including Anslaf, wore unassuming clothing as not to be recognized by any agent of the small council.

"_Omnibus mori."_ Anslaf greeted with a hushed tone in a Cyrodillic version of the famous Valaryian passphrase.

"_Omnibus serviant."_ Syrene gave the counter back, and Ansalf sat at the table. On the table were various maps, letters in code, and other items. "So, what news?" he asked, pouring the contents of a pitcher of wine into a flask set for him.

"Seems Lord Stark is still investigating the death of Jon Arryn, and has enlisted the aid of Littlefinger." Syrenne said, picking her teeth with a fork.

Ansalf gritted his teeth upon hearing this. He knew part of the reason Eddard had chosen to be the King's Hand was so that he could find out what happened to his oldest friend and mentor. But this news of hearing that he was being helped by that runt of a man… something felt off about Littlefinger the moment that he met the man. The Master of Coin had kept his composure calm and his face certainly masked any emotion, but Anslaf could tell, due to that keen sense that the dragon blood granted him- or any trained mage had, in the matter of fact-that underneath Baelish's calm façade, there was a strong under torrent of black hatred and rage. Directed at whom, Anslaf couldn't say, but he had a good feeling that Catelyn Stark lay at the center of it. "Do you have any intel on that man?" he asked the group.

"Regrettably, no." Cyric stated. "But we did pick up some interesting information about the castle itself. Harder for myself to do personally here. Most of these n'wahs have never even _seen_ a Bosmer before…"

"Cyric, you were saying something about the castle?" Anslaf cut him off, wanting to get to the point and not have to listen to the wood elf's tales of woe.

"Oh..err..right. Sorry." Cyric mumbled out an apology. He laid out an old, dusty map, which Anslaf had guessed that the thief had 'acquired' from somewhere, but he declined to ask how he got it. "It's a map of all the secret tunnels and exits that Maegor the Cruel had built when he constructed the Red Keep. Useful if we need a quick exfil out of the city."

"Does anyone else know of these tunnels?" Anslaf asked.

Thrynn answered him. "A few people remain in the keep whom know of these secret passageways. The most notable, however, would be the Spider." Anslaf honestly wasn't surprised by this. The spymaster was rumored to have eyes and ears on every continent in almost every town and villiage. But was surprising was what Syrenne had to say next, understandably hesitantly.

"The Spider, it seems, wants to meet with you, tonight, in the palace gardens." She said, obviously trying, and failing, to not bite her lip. Anslaf honestly was speechless, due to his surprise that the fat bald man had somehow managed to track four professional thieves and an assassin, all of whom were masters of the art of stealth. He narrowed his steel blue eyes. "How did he find you out?" he asked, his voice calm, but with the edge of anger laced into it ever so slightly.

"Damn kids." Thrynn answered gruffly, making a face that looked to Anslaf to be somewhat of a mixture between mild amusement and disgust. "The Spider has very many peasants and nobles alike in his command, including street urchins."

Ansalf took another gulp of his wine, then took one last look at those maps. "Anything else to report?"

"Just this." Rune picked up. "Valdimar sent a coded letter to us, it seems someone tried to assassinate Bran Stark, and now Lady Catelyn is investigating if any Lannisters are involved at all."

Anslaf just sighed. "And that is the absolute last thing we need now; two of the most powerful houses on the continent trying to strangle each other. Mark my words, someone is trying to plunge this country into a massive civil war that it can ill afford now with the coming winter, with the Others not far behind it. And if the Thalmor find an ally in the Crown…" He let the rest of the group fill in the gap, as they all knew of the coming war between the Empire and the Dominion. A simultaneous civil war in Westeros backed by both powers would be catastrophic, as it would surely mean the beginning of a global war.

As they were wrapping things up, the group heard movement outside the small tavern. Ansalf got up out of his seat and briskly walked over to the window. Outside across the street, he saw Lannister troops surround the entrance of one of Littlefinger's brothels, led by none other than Jamie Lannister.

And out of that brothel came Ned Stark and three of his guards, including his captain, Jory Cassel.

"Fuck!" Anslaf muttered under his breath, as he ran back to the table, grabbed and hooked on his sword and ran toward the door, leaving his bewildered crew behind. He burst it open, just in time to see Jaime draw his own sword in front of Ned.

"Come Stark, I'd rather you die sword in hand!" Jaime threatened. Though his back was toward Anslaf, he got a torrent of rage and pure, seething anger rolling from Jaime's emotional state.

"If you threaten my Lord again…" Jory began to warn, but was cut off by the Kingslayer.

"Threaten? As in 'I'm going to open your lord from balls to brains and see what Starks are made of'?" Jaime threatened Ned again, this time making a bifurcating motion with his sword. As far as Ansalf saw and felt, Ned was keeping a calm, but somewhat angered, composure.

"If you kill me, your brother's a dead man." Ned retorted back, which made Anslaf confused. What did Tyrion Lannister have to do with this? Jaime interrupted his thought patterns, however, and caused him to draw his sword.

"You're right. Take him alive, kill his men."

At that, two of the Lannister guardsmen threw their spears at the Stark men, hitting Ned's two guards each in the chest, killing them quickly. Anslaf knew he had to stop this fight, and yelled at Jaime, as Ned and Jory advanced after killing four of the Lannister retainers.

"LANNISTER!"

Everyone stopped fighting for a moment, as Jaime spun around to face Ansalf, who had his sword drawn and in his favored combat position.

"What is the meaning of this, Ser Jaime?" the Blackwolf growled, as he noticed himself now being surrounded by Lannister spearmen.

"Why don't you ask the man who ordered to kidnap my brother?" The Kingslayer spat, making a motion to Ned, who shot a look of fury at Jaime.

"Your brother tried to murder my son, twice!" he spat back.

Before Jaime could retort, a Lannister spearman, bloodthirsty and jumpy, charged at Anslaf, intent on killing the man.

A fatal mistake.

The Blackwolf knocked aside the lance, and, using the spearman's own momentum against him, swung his sword at the armored man's neck. The soldier fell backwards, his head flying off his neck and out of his helm, which fell with a clang a few feet from the owner's twitching body.

And so the battle resumed.

Ansalf was not wearing armor, but he was far quicker and more skilled with a sword than these men. And so he sliced, stabbed, thrust, and jabbed his way through the Lannister soldiers, who began to use reckless tactics to defeat him. It mattered not to the Blackwolf; he was in full killing mode now. Not a blade bit him, not a spear pierced him. Everything the Lannister men tried were in vain. A few minutes of battle later, only five spearmen were left standing out of the original twenty. Anslaf turned, and saw Ned and Jaime engaged in a duel of the fates, after Jaime had killed Jory by stabbing him in the right eye with a dagger. Ansalf saw a spearman come up behind Ned, and before he could shout a warning, the soldier stabbed Ned in the leg right above the knee. He saw Eddard wince, and drop to the ground. Anslaf ran over, running through the soldier with his blade, and took a defensive stance between Lord Stark and the Kingslayer. Jaime scowled at the Blackwolf, then decided better as he sheathed his sword, and moved to mount his steed, calling back as he ran off with his four remaining men.

"I want my brother, Lord Stark! I want him back!"

As Jaime rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Ansalf tended to a wounded Lord Stark, who was beginning to lose consciousness from the blood loss. He first tore off a piece of cloth from one of the dead Lannister men, then used it to tie a tourniquet around Ned's leg to stop the bleeding. He then removed the spear point from the wound, which caused Ned to cry out in pain through clenched teeth before again slipping in unconsciousness. Anslaf then put his hand on the wound, which had stopped bleeding, and started to use a healing spell, a basic one that would close the wound and hopefully repair some of the damaged tissue and bone. As he finished healing Stark's wound, he muttered to himself as the City Watch came bearing stretchers.

_What have you been hiding from me, Lord Stark?_

* * *

**Well, another chapter successfully concluded. I was somewhat worried with the battle scene since I don't want Anslaf to reveal his powers to the Westerosi crew until a later chapter. I am also condensing the number of POVs, as what goes on in Tamriel, at the Wall, and in Essos will remain mostly canon until much, much later. For now, the story will focus on primarily the events in King's Landing, and some in Winterfell and with Decius. And sorry about the two month delay, college is usually a first priority in this case.**


	12. In the Spider's Web

In the Spider's Web

**Ansalf**

* * *

**9:30 P.M, 2nd Hearthfire, 4E 204/298 AL. Godswood, Red Keep.**

* * *

_What are you hiding, Lord Stark?_

It was a question that kept on plaguing Ansalf's mind, even as he tried to meditate in the godswood of the Red Keep, the gardens that doubled as a place of worship for followers of the Old Gods of the Forest. Always when he tried to clear his mind of the problem, it came rushing back to the forefront of his worries. From what he had gleaned, Lord Eddard had blamed Tyrion Lannister for the attempted murder of his son, and had ordered his arrest some time ago. What didn't add up was that almost no one in the capital had heard of Lord Tyrion's arrest, save for the Lannisters, of course. And he suspected Varys knew as well, though he had little reason to put his faith in the information broker. Almost as if his thoughts had summoned the man, Anslaf heard the shuffle of sandaled feet, and a melodious, soft voice speaking behind him, almost as if he was hearing a robin sing a song.

"My apologies, my lord Anslaf, for bringing you here on such short notice. I wanted to speak to the famous Blackwolf of Skyrim for myself."

Smiling to himself, Anslaf got up, straightened himself, and faced the infamous Spider.

"The pleasure is all mine, Lord Varys. I assume you know what I really am, then." He stated.

"Of course I do, Dragonborn." Varys confirmed, emphasizing his title. "Most in this land are blind to the truths of Tamriel and beyond, but I have experience with mages and warlocks and wizards and all manner of sorcery, though regrettably for myself, many of those encounters were…unpleasant to say the least. And the tales of your exploits and feats are indeed the stuff of legend, my lord. Defeating monsters and beings too terrible for the average man to handle. Such a thing must have been hard on you." The eunuch said, obviously trying to flatter Anslaf.

"Not as hard as the trail that I faced before those, which I shall not spin you a tale of, Lord of Spiders." Anslaf countered the flattery, wanting to get to the point of this meeting. "Now, before you say anything, you shall answer a question that has plagued me as of late." He leaned close in. "What happened to Tyrion Lannister?" he asked the spymaster.

"Has Lord Stark not informed you, my lord?" Ansalf shook his head. "His wife, Catelyn Stark, has taken it upon herself to arrest Lord Tyrion on the charge of attempted murder of a noble's son. Last I heard, he's being held in the Eyrie, under the custody of Lady Catelyn's sister, Lady Lysa Arryn."

Anslaf stroked his beard. "This doesn't make any sense. I meet Lord Tyrion in Winterfell, and he doesn't seem like the type to be stupid enough to murder a Lord's child under his care. What was Catelyn thinking?" He paced around a little. "Someone is trying to frame the Lannisters for the attempt on Bran Stark's life."

"Obviously, my lord. Who would commit such a heinous act?" Varys stated vaguely, which caused a red flag to go off in Anslaf's mind.

"Did you have something to do with this?" He asked, narrowing his eyes at the spymaster.

"I assure you, my friend, if I was behind it, then I would have done it right the first time, and in a way that didn't trace back to me. Besides, I would only commit such an act if there was a benefit for the realm as a whole." He stated sincerely, then added "Have you no cause to trust me?"

"_Onikaan ni ov dovah_. It is always wise to distrust a dragon. I do not trust anyone unless they have earned my trust." Ansalf retorted, crossing his arms.

"Then I say you are perhaps the wisest person amongst Lord Stark's entourage." Varys leaned in closer. "Keep Lord Eddard and his kin safe, even from themselves, in these coming days. You already know there are those in King's Landing who would love nothing more than to see the realm bleed in order to advance themselves." He urged quietly, as if the trees themselves were spies of Ansalf's growing list of foes in this country. With that, the eunuch quietly walked away, disappearing into the shadows, leaving an increasingly concerned and fearful Anslaf, who pondered the fate of the planet as nearly every force on the continent seemed to conspire against him.

* * *

**5th Heartfire, Red Keep throne room…**

* * *

In all honesty, Anslaf had to admire Ned's resilience. His leg had recovered surprisingly well enough to the point where he could walk around without much difficulty, though he had to use a cane for the time being. During his recovery, Anslaf had found out what had happened leading up to the fight in front of the brothel. Apparently after the tourney, Ned had attended a meeting of the small council, which he had stormed out of in silent rage after a heated argument about Daenerys Targaryen, quitting his position of Hand of the King in the process. He had gotten ready to leave, when Littlefinger had stopped by his study to bring him to his brothel, because apparently he had found one of King Robert's newest bastard children. And that is when and where Jaime had decided to ambush Ned. Ansalf had to admit, Littlefinger's involvement made him suspicious of an ulterior motive. That thought took a back seat, though, as he listened, along with Ned, who was sitting on the Iron Throne due to Robert reinstating him as Hand before going on a hunting trip with Renly and Ser Barristan, to a group of Riverlands villagers whom had petitioned the King to hear them out about their troubles with a recent disturbing string of bandit raids.

"They burned…most of everything…in the Riverlands." The spokesperson for the villagers began, tears welling up in his eyes as he recalled the destruction of his village. "The destroyed our fields, our granaries, our homes! They took our women, and then they…took them again. And when they was done, they butchered them as if they was animals. They covered our children in pitch, and lit them on fire!" he stated, trying not to cry as the tears fell freely down his face.

"Brigands, most likely." Pycelle stated, seated over on Ned's left, already bored with the Riverlanders' tales of woe.

"They weren't thieves." The leader clarified. "They didn't steal nothing. In fact…they left something behind, your grace."

"He's the King's Hand, not the King!" Pycelle practically yelled at the man. "The King is out hunting."

Another riverlander opened up a burlap sack, and poured out its festering, stinking contents; fish heads.

"Fish? The sigil of House Tully?" Littlefinger inquired, seated on Ned's right. "Isn't that your wife's house, my Lord Hand?" Ned seemed to think for a moment, then turned to the spokesperson.

"These men. Were they flying a sigil?" he asked. When the peasant shot him a confused, he further clarified for him. "A banner."

"None, your…Hand." The villager began, now seeming to remember whom he was talking to. "But the one who was leading them, taller than a foot than any man I've ever seen. Saw him cut the blacksmith in two. Saw him take the head off a horse, with a single swipe of his sword." As he heard this, Anslaf had a very bad feeling whom that villager was talking about; a certain big knight known for his rage.

"That sounds like someone we know. The Mountain." Baelish loudly whispered to Ned, who turned back to the villagers.

"You're describing Ser Gregor Clegane, one of Lord Tywin Lannister's bannermen." Ned stated with clarity, though Ansalf could also detect a whiff of anger.

"Now why would Ser Gregor turn brigand? The man is an anointed knight." Pycelle asked, clearly not convinced that one could cast such knightly oaths aside like trash.

"I've heard him called 'Tywin Lannister's mad dog'. I'm sure you have as well." Littlefinger informed the Grand Maester, then turned to Lord Stark. "Can you think of any reason the Lannisters might be mad at your wife, my Hand?" he whispered to Ned again, obviously referring to Catelyn's imprisonment of Tyrion Lannister, whom Anslaf had just heard from Varys had been set free after a champion had won a trial by combat for him, though no one in this court, or the rest of Westeros for that matter, knew that yet. He still didn't have to trust the damn eunuch, however.

"If the Lannisters were to be attacking villages under the King's protection…" Pycelle began, trying hard to dismiss the villager's claims.

"It would be almost as brazen as attacking the King's Hand in the streets of the capital." Petyr finished, an obvious jab that Ned seemed to ignore. Ansalf scoffed at Littlefinger's choice of words. Brazen? What Tywin was doing was downright treasonous, breaking his feudal contract by attacking the holdings of other lords under the King's protection.

"I cannot give you back your homes, or restore your debt to life." Ned began. "But perhaps I _can_ give justice, in the name of our King, Robert." Now Ansalf was interested, as was everyone else in the room it seemed.

"Lord Beric Dondarrion." Eddard called out, and a man dressed in dark clothes stepped out, twin purple lightning bolts on his cape. "You shall have the command. Assemble one hundred men, and ride to Ser Gregor's keep." He commanded the younger lord, who nodded affirmatively. "As you command, my Lord Hand." Ned then stood to his full height to deliver his decree in the King's authority.

"In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, I charge you to bring the king's justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane, and all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him, and attaint him. I strip him of all ranks and titles, of all lands and holdings, and sentence him to death." Ned decreed, causing murmurs among the crowd, and causing a very distressed looking Pycelle to rise up quickly out of his seat, a feat that Ansalf considered impressive for his age.

"My Lord, this…this is a drastic action…" The old man began rambling. "It would be better to wait for King Robert's return." Ned cut off the old man's complaining, who quickly shut up.

"Grand Maester Pycelle, send a raven to Casterly Rock. Inform Tywin Lannister that he has been summoned to court to answer for the crimes of his bannerman. He will arrive within the fortnight, or be branded an enemy of the crown, and a traitor to the realm." Beric and Ned nodded to each other, and everyone who came to court went out of the throne room, murmuring on what had transpired.

As Ned and Anslaf began to walk out of the throne room, Littlefinger began to walk with them.

"A bold move my lord, but is it wise? Tywin Lannister is the richest man in the Seven Kingdoms." The Master of Coin pointed out to Ned, though Anslaf countered him.

"He isn't the richest man on the planet though." He half-joked, half-mocked the Valeman, who fumed.

"Gold wins wars, not soldiers!." He called as he stopped.

"Then how come Robert is King, and not Tywin Lannister?" Ned asked rhetorically as he and Ansalf made their way out of the throne room and back to the Hand's tower.

* * *

**Later that night, Ned's study…**

* * *

"So you think all these bastard sons and daughters of the King are connected somehow?" Ansalf asked Eddard, who was pacing, or at least hobbling, back and forth in the solar.

"Without a doubt. Something about these illegitimate children of Robert's has me on edge, but I don't know what." He paused. "I need to get the girls out of here." He motioned to a guard standing by the door, who nodded, and left to go get Eddard's daughters. A few moments later, Sansa and Arya were sitting on the wood chest in front of Ned's bed. He looked at both of his children, and sighed. Ansalf knew that this had to be hard on the old man.

"I'm sending both of you back to Winterfell." He stated, with an air of clarity in his voice that many expected out of a Lord of the North.

"What?" Both of the girls exclaimed at the same time. Ned sighed. "Listen-." He was cut off again by both of the girls.

"What about Joffrey?"

"Are you dying? Is it because of your leg? Is that why we're going home?" Arya burst out, which cause Ansalf to laugh, earning himself a dirty look from the younger of the Stark girls

"What? No, I-." Ned started to explain, but was again cut off by Sansa.

"Father, please don't!" Sansa pleaded.

"You can't!" Arya, for once, seemed to agree with her sister. "I've got my lessons with Syrio! I'm finally getting good!"

"Look." Ned began. "This isn't a punishment. I want you back in Winterfell for your own safety." He declared, a concerned tone in his voice that Ansalf audibly and clearly heard.

"Can we take Syrio back with us?" Arya asked, though this just earned her a tirade from Sansa.

"Who cares about your stupid dancing master? I can't go!" She declared, small tears forming in her eyes. "I'm supposed to marry Prince Joffrey! I love him! I'm supposed to marry him, be his queen, and have his babies!" She exclaimed to everyone, causing Arya to roll her eyes and mutter. "Seven Hells, girl."

"When you're old enough, I'll make a match with someone who is worthy of you. Someone who is brave and gentle and strong." He offered.

"_Like Erik, perhaps?"_ Ansalf thought to himself as he considered asking Eddard if that would be a suitable match for his daughter, as he already saw a friendship forming between the two, and Erik he knew, during the youth's period of apprenticeship, a good and worthy man. Sansa, it seems, still had her heart on marrying Joffrey.

"I don't want someone brave and gentle and strong! I want him! He'll be the greatest king that ever was; a golden lion, and I'll give him sons with beautiful blond hair!" At this moment, Anslaf noticed a change in Eddard's look, as Arya and Sansa bickered about Joffrey.

"The lion's not his sigil, idiot. He's a stag, just like his father."

"Joffrey's nothing like that old drunk king."

A pit settled in Anslaf's stomach, as he had come to the realization that Eddard had arrived at a few moments earlier. He saw Ned's eyes become like steel, and he used a commanding voice, one that urged warning.

"Go on girls, get your Septa and pack your things."

As Arya and Sansa left, with the latter complaining about her father's unfairness, Eddard turned back to the Dragonborn.

"I need to look at that book again." He said, fear lacing into his voice. Anslaf ran over to the bookshelf, and pulled down the large history tome off the shelf. He placed on Eddard's desk, and stood behind him as the Warden of the North began to read out of the book. He saw him flip past the chapter on the Targaryens, then the Umbers, then finally got to Baratheon. He flipped to the lineage section, and began to read aloud to the Blackwolf.

"Lord Orys Baratheon, black of hair. Lord Axel Baratheon, black of hair. Lionel Baratheon, black of hair." He turned the page that detailed the recent members of the ruling house of the Stormlands.

"Steffon Baratheon, black of hair. Robert Baratheon, black of hair. Joffrey Baratheon…" Anslaf saw the look of horror develop on Ned's face as he heard was next.

"Golden-haired."

The pieces of the puzzle came together for them both, as they both realized what great secret Lord Arryn had died for, and the one that would affect Anslaf's plans on who to obtain support from.

The children of Cersei Lannister were fathered by Jaime Lannister, her twin brother.

* * *

**Sorry this is a woefully short chapter. So now Eddard knows that Joffrey and his siblings are incest babies with no right to the throne of Westeros. How much do you want to bet he tells Cersei? ;)**

**To be continued...**


	13. You Win or You Die

You Win or You Die.

* * *

**Lannister Camp, eight miles outside the Golden Tooth, Westerlands.**

**7 Hearthfire 4E 204/298 AL.**

**Jaime**

* * *

The sight of a military camp getting ready for a campaign is truly a sight like no other. Crimson banners flapped gently in the wind, the proud golden lion that was adorned on them looking as fierce as the real thing. Foot levies and men-at-arms moved to and fro, carrying out various tasks that their commanders, be they knights or lords, set out for them. And in the center of the camp was Lord Tywin Lannister's command tent, the biggest one on the field. It was here that the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West was cleaning a freshly killed stag that had wandered too close to the Lannister encampment. It was also here that Jaime had decided to relay Ned Stark's message, which he honestly would have laughed at, if it weren't for his father standing across from him.

"_You have been summoned to court to answer for the crimes of your bannerman, Gregor Clegane. You will arrive within the fortnight, or be branded an enemy of the crown…_" He scoffed, putting down the letter. "Poor Ned Stark. Brave man, but…terrible judgement." His father just looked at him, then turned back to cleaning the deer.

"Attacking him was stupid." Tywin stated without turning around, continuing to clean and skin the animal. "Lannisters don't act like fools." He said, dropping the deer intestines on the ground. He turned to face Jaime. "You going to say something _clever_? Go on, say something clever."

Jaime silently fumed. _Always the one to criticize all of us_. "Catelyn Stark took my brother."

"Then why is he still alive?" Tywin asked him, wiping his hands quickly before starting to skin the beast.

"Tyrion?" Jaime asked.

"Ned Stark." Tywin corrected him. _Should I tell him about the Blackwolf?_ Jaime decided to wait a little until he was ready to tell him.

"One of our men interfered before I could get to him; put a spear though his leg." He said, leaving out the part about Ansalf killing over two thirds of his men.

"I'll ask again, then. Why did you not kill him?" His father asked again, this time a grain of irritation audible in his tone.

"It wouldn't have been clean." He replied, and then added. "There was also a man, who was one of Ned Stark's group. I saw him kill over sixteen of my men."

"So why didn't you kill him as well?" Tywin scoffed, then added. "You care too much about what other people think of you."

_Oh, you mean like you?_

Jaime kept himself from saying that, and instead replied, a frustrated tone lacing his voice now. "I could care less, what other people thing of me."

"But that's what you want people to think of you." Tywin corrected again. Jaime sighed.

"It's the truth."

"When you hear them whisper 'Kingslayer' behind your back, doesn't it bother you?" Tywin asked mockingly. Jaime rolled his eyes. "Of course it bothers me." He simply replied, fully expecting one of his father's clichés about the Lannister name. And sure enough, he got one.

"A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of a sheep." Tywin scolded. "I suppose I should be grateful that your vanity got in the way of your recklessness." He stopped cleaning the deer for a moment. "I'm giving you half of our forces; thirty thousand men. You will take them to Catelyn Stark's girlhood home, and remind her that Lannisters always pay their debts." He commanded, continuing to skin the stag. Jaime raised his eyebrows. "I didn't realize you placed so high a value on my brother's life."

"He's a Lannister." Tywin humorlessly chuckled, as if the fact should have been obvious from the beginning. "He might be the lowest of the Lannisters, but he's one of us." He got back up from his work. "And every day he is held a prisoner, the less our name commands respect." At this, Jaime couldn't bite back the retort that issued forth from his lips.

"So I guess the lion concern himself with the opinions of a sheep-." He would've added more, if it weren't for his father now yelling at him.

"It's not an opinion, it's a fact!" Jaime now shut himself up. "If another house can seize one of our own, with impunity, we are no longer a house to be feared." He turned to Jaime, who didn't say anything, and just waited for him to continue.

"You're mother's dead. Soon, I'll be dead, then you, and your brother, and your sister, and all her children. All of us dead, and rotting in the ground. It's the family name that lives on. It's all that lives on. Not your personal glory, not your bloody honor, but family." He set down the knife, and turned back to his son. "Do you understand?" Jaime nodded, though he still found it remarkably funny that his father could be this hypocritical.

"You're blessed with abilities that few men poses." Tywin continued. "You're blessed to belong to the most powerful house in the Kingdoms. And you're still blessed with youth. And what have you done with these blessings, eh? You've served as a glorified bodyguard for two kings. One a madman, and the other a drunk." He walked over to his son. "The future of our family will be determined in these next few months. We can establish a dynasty that will last a _thousand_ years, or we can collapse into nothing, as the Targaryens did." He put his hand on Jaime's face, and spoke a little more firmly. "I need you to become the man you were always meant to be. Not next year, not tomorrow. Now." He let go of Jaime, and went back to cutting up the deer. The younger Lannister didn't say anything, as he exited the command tent, his thoughts stewing as he went to gather up his new commanders.

* * *

**Ned**

**King's Landing**

* * *

"Please tell me you're not considering this." Ansalf said, rubbing his temples as Ned got ready to go to the gardens. Ned stopped for a moment, and then looked at one of the few people in the capital he could call friend.

"I have to. If I tell Robert before the children have a chance to get away, he will kill them." He said, knowing full well his best friend's extent of his rage. His obsession with the Targaryen child proved that.

"And if you tell Cersei that you know the truth, she'll end up reinforcing herself with loyal supporters, throw you in the dungeons for treason, and start a massive civil war!" Ansalf's voice was rising, though Ned did not fail to notice that the Blackwolf was trying to keep it under control.

"You don't know Robert like I do." Ned said, speaking more quickly now. "When he finds out the truth, he will butcher his wife and his children, and put their heads on pikes."

"Well, then it would be better to drop the whole matter entirely!" He yelled, making Ned freeze in his tracks, and his blood run cold.

"She tried to murder my boy, twice. Something that I can't forgive or forget. And here you are, suggesting that I bow before her and her murderous spawn. Have you not a shred of honor?" Upon hearing that, Ansalf walked up to Ned, and the Lord of Winterfell could see the cold fury in his blue eyes, and he spoke in one of the eeriest low voices that he had ever heard.

"Don't you ever, _ever_, question my honor, _my Lord Hand_." His voice was strained, trying to hold back…something…but Ned could not tell what. "Have you forgotten that there is a much bigger threat to your realm-nay, the planet-than the Lannisters? One that can, and will, wipe this world clean of life if we do not stop it?"

"No, I have not forgotten." Ned replied, keeping his voice even. "But I will not have her children's blood on my hands, though I will neither let her go unpunished either." He said with finality. But as he made his way out of his study, he heard Ansalf sigh, and mutter.

"Eddard Stark, your honor may yet be the death of us."

* * *

**Godswood, a while later.**

**Cersei**

* * *

She walked up to the King's Hand, a smirk gracing her fair features.

"You're in pain." She pointed out mockingly. _And you deserve it as well_. Ned Stark, that oaf that should have never come to this place, just smiled and stood up, though it seemed to Cersei that _hobbled_ was more like what he did.

"I've had worse, my Lady." He shrugged off, and Cersei did not fail to note that he did not address her by 'your grace',

"Perhaps it's time for you to go home. The South doesn't seem to agree with you." She pointed out.

"I know the truth John Arryn died for." He revealed. Cersei scowled at him, but she wasn't going to let him have the satisfaction of victory just yet. If she ever would.

"Do you, Lord Stark? Is that why you called me her? To pose me riddles?" she asked rhetorically.

"Has Robert done this before?" Ned asked, pointing to the bruise on her cheek that she had received when Robert had hit her.

"Jaime would have killed him." She replied, quickly turning her face down before meeting Stark's eyes again. "My brother is easily worth _ten_ of your friend!"

"You're brother?" Ned inquired. "Or your lover?"

An awkward silence followed in between them. She was the first to break it. "Targaryens have been wedding brother and sister for three hundred years to keep bloodlines pure." She said. "Jaime and I are more than that. We shared a womb. We were born into this world together, we belong together." And it was true for them both. They were two separate halves of the same luminous being. Why should the septons and the priests dictate whom you can and can't fall in love with? She only saw anger in Ned's eyes, though.

"My son saw you with him." He stated with cold, clear clarity. She looked to see if anyone was listening in, then resumed speaking with him.

"Do you love your children?" he asked. An honest question, for her part.

"With all my heart." He replied.

"No more than I love mine." She countered him.

"And their all Jaime's." Ned again stressed, to which she gave a short chuckle.

"Thank the gods. In the rare event that Robert finds room enough from his whores to stumble drunk into my bed, I finish him off in other ways. In the morning, he doesn't remem-,"

"You always hated him." Ned pointed out. Wrongly. She shook her head.

_You poor, naïve little man._

"Hated him?" she laughed. "I worshipped him. Every girl in the Seven Kingdoms dreamed of him, but it was mine by oath." She remembered the day rather fondly. "And when I finally saw him that day in the Sept of Baelor, lean and fierce and black-bearded, it was the happiest moment of my life." She said, but then soured as she remembered what happened after. "And when he crawled on top of me that night, stinking of wine, did what he did, what little he could do, he leaned over and whispered in my ear, 'Lyanna'." She spat, seeing the pained expression on Eddard's face, but she cared not. "Your sister was a corpse and I was a living girl, and yet he loved her more than me." She saw a flash of anger across Ned's face, visible for a second, before he composed himself.

"When the king returns from his hunt, I'll tell him the truth. You must be gone by then, you and your children. I will not have their blood on my hands. Go as far away as you can, and take as many men as you can, because wherever you go, Robert's wrath _will_ follow you." Ned warned Cersei.

_How dare him_.

"And what of my wrath, Lord Stark?" She spat, mustering up as much venom as she could in her voice. "You should have taken the realm for yourself. Jaime told about the day King's Landing fell. He was sitting on the Iron Throne and you made him give it up. All you needed to do was climb those steps yourself. Such a sad mistake." She scoffed. Ned smiled grimly. "I've made many mistakes in my life, but that wasn't one of them."

"Oh, but it was." She retorted. "When you play the game of thrones, you win, or you die. There is no middle ground. She walked away, already planning her next steps.

For her Joffrey to take power now, and seize the advantage away from Eddard, Robert needed to die.

* * *

**Anslaf**

**The very next day, the Tower of the Hand. Mid-afternoon**

* * *

"That fool. That stupid, dunce of a Lord!" The Blackwolf cursed. "I _warned _him something like this would happen! But he didn't think it fit to listen to me!" He heard his apprentice sigh, which earned Erik his ire.

"What in Oblivion are you sighing about, lover boy?" he snarled. Erik shook his head.

"How about the fact that you're out of control?" He answered.

"Out of control? Believe me, boy, you haven't seen me out of control." He warned his ward. He liked Erik, but sometimes the boy's optimistic nature and frank naivety when it came to relationships grated on his nerves like almost nothing else.

Except for Lord Eddard's strict adherence to 'honor', it seemed.

Erik just threw up his hands. "I give up." He said. "I'm going to go get some wine." Anslaf just grumbled as Erik left, leaving the Dragonborn to stew on the day's events. It had begun when King Robert was brought into Pycelle's ward bleeding profusely, a boar tusk protruding from his abdomen. They had managed to remove the tusk and dress the wound, but even with what meager abilities in restoration he had, the wound was fatal, and Robert would die in the next few hours. That left little time for Ned to prepare, and already Anslaf had a feeling that Cersei was two steps ahead of the Lord of Winterfell. He saw him pass by a few times more, but it was never to talk. Over the course of the next two hours, he studied reports sent to him by Syrenne and Varys both. And the situation seemed to get worse by the minute.

Apparently Gregor Clegane's raids had only been a distraction, as Tywin Lannister's massive host of sixty thousand men smashed through the weakened Tully defenses near the Golden Tooth, and later split up, with Jaime taking half of his father's forces to march on the provincial capital of the Riverlands, the great fortress of Riverrun, while his father continued on westward, in order to take a position that would enable him to block any attempt to relieve the beleaguered Tullys. He barely even notice Erik had comeback, albeit without any wine, as Pycelle had confiscated most of it, rather needlessly, as he wanted to give Robert one last drink of the alcoholic beverage before his passing

Another hour passed, before they heard it.

The tolling of the bells.

Iron bells.

Anslaf sighed. "And so passed Robert, son of Steffon, King of Westeros." He chuckled. "I honestly can't say I'll miss the drunken old fool."

"Same here." Erik muttered, trying not to drift off to sleep. "He was a fool."

"Aye, but an honest fool." Anslaf countered. However, before they could say anything anymore, Anslaf suddenly felt something was going terribly wrong, as if the very ground beneath King's Landing was going to give way and swallow them whole. He turned to Erik, a look of alarm etched onto his face.

"We need to get ready. Now."

That was all Erik needed to get moving. The two quickly threw their armor on, making sure they each were armored up and armed. No sooner than Erik had strapped on his claymore, did they hear the screams of wounded and dying men. They both looked at each other, before rushing out into the hallway, weapons drawn. What greeted them at the entrance was a bloodbath. A dozen Lannister soldiers and City Watchmen were tearing through the Stark guards. Crimson blood stained the white marble floor of the tower.

The Red Keep was certainly earning its namesake today.

Anslaf gave a rallying cry for the few Stark soldiers left.

"To me! Send these fools into the abyss!" And with that, he and Erik charged into the fray, hacking and slashing their way through the Queen's men. Anslaf ducked under a spear thrust by a Watchman, then stabbed him in the throat, causing the ill-trained police man to gurgle out blood and fall to the ground in an undignified heap. He then thrust his shield into a Lannister retainer's head, bashing his face in and sending him flying to the ground. He realized, as soon as the last Stark guard fell, that sooner or later, he and Erik were going to get overrun if the reinforcements kept up.

So he Shouted.

"_**TIID…KO UL!"**_

Time slowed to a crawl for Anslaf, and he immediately began to slice through literally every neck belonging to the Queen's men. A few seconds later, his Thu'um wore off, and about twenty-three bodies dropped to the ground in various stated of dismemberment.

Erik smirked at his mentor. "The old Slow Time stunt, huh?"

Anslaf gave a cocky grin back. "Yep. Now we need to make sure if the girls are ok." Then as they were running toward the girls' rooms, he had to rub his apprentice a little. "Need to make sure your 'one true love' is safe!" He laughed a little as Erik called him nearly every known obscenity in the book. A short time later they rounded a corner. There, Anslaf saw a sight that made him infuriated. The body of Septa Mordane was lying on the ground, her head had been separated from her shoulders. He saw the last expression the old woman ever wore in her life, one of defiance and stubborn will. Ansalf prayed to Akatosh for her, before he heard Erik's cry of despair. He burst into the room, where he found Erik yelling. Panicking would be closer to the truth of the matter, however.

"She's gone! They took her! I have to save her! I…"

Anslaf had heard enough out of his ward. He sheathed his sword, walked over to his apprentice, grabbed him with his left hand, and with his right, slapped him hard. It seemed to shake him out of his panicked stupor.

"Listen to me! You won't do her any good by panicking like a rat on a sinking ship!" He practically yelled. "You have been my ward for over two fucking years now! Pull your head out of your ass and stop this nonsense." That seemed to have an effect on his student, as Erik took a deep breath and became composed, though still worried, it seemed.

Before he could say anything, he heard a whining sound come from the corner of the room. He ran over, and found Lady on her leash, tugging at the piece of rope. Anslaf quickly cut the rope with this dagger, and Lady quickly ran toward the door, barking at Anslaf when she stopped at the entrance. The two looked at each other, and quickly made up their minds to follow the young direwolf. Lady led them up the endless stairs, until they got to the balcony, where they saw Syrio Forel, lying on the ground, dead from a sword thrust straight through the heart. Around him were the bodies of dead Lannister retainers. Anslaf walked over to Syrio, and knelt down. The Braavosi swordmaster had a peaceful look on his face, as if he had fulfilled some unknown purpose, and finally welcomed death with open arms. Anslaf closed Syrio's eyes with his right hand.

"We will meet again in Sovngarde, brother." He said. "But not today." He got up, and turned back to Erik and Sansa's direwolf and walked over to where they were.

"So, what do we do now?" Erik asked him. Anslaf looked out toward the balcony edge, where the glistening blue sea reflected the sun's bright rays, which were now just beginning to set, signaling the beginning of evening. He then looked back at his ward.

"First, we need to escape from the Red Keep, using those secret tunnels that Syrenne and her crew provided for us. Then, we need to meet with her in the second tavern we discussed, since I have a bad feeling the first is going to be under careful watch. After that, maybe we can figure out what in Oblivion is going on around here, and work on a plan from there. We'll also need to start filtering everyone in." He paused, then added almost forlornly.

"We also need to alert Decius."

* * *

**Fairly long chapter here. So, now we see events leading into the civil war that will tear Westeros apart, much to the pleasure of Molag Bal and his servants. Now, if anyone is wondering why we don't see any Jon or Dany POV's yet, they will come, just not now. And don't worry, there IS going to be a big battle coming up in the near future, as the Ninth Legion comes of standby mode and goes into a full war mode. Also, if you haven't noticed, I've got a little subplot involving Anslaf's background that will be very important in later chapters.**

**And thank you to HaywireEagle for pointing out that you don't usually build large pieces of artillery and then transport them across a vast ocean. Sorry if the Latin seems a little out of place, as well. Hopefully Ansalf bitch slapping Erik made up for it.**


	14. Drums of War

Drums of War.

* * *

**Winterfell. 10****th**** Heartfire, 4E 204/298 AL.**

**Robb.**

* * *

"Treason?" Robb asked again, not quite believing the letter that Maester Luwin had given him. He studied the letter again, noting whose handwriting this belonged to. "Sansa wrote this!" He exclaimed.

"It is your sister's hand, but the queen's words." Luwin pointed out. "You're being summoned to King's Landing to swear fealty to the new King."

"Joffrey puts my father in chains and now he wants his ass kissed?" Robb asked angrily, his blood boiling with the news of his father's arrest, and the latest of a long line of Lannister betrayals.

"This is a royal command, my lord." Luwin pointedly warned. "If you should refuse to obey…" Robb, however, knew what happened the last time two Stark men went down to the capital; execution right on the spot.

"I won't refuse." Robb replied. "If his grace summons me to King's Landing, I'll go to King's Landing." He set down the letter, and his voice became like steel. "But not alone." He handed the letter back to the Maester.

"Call the banners." He commanded, and the atmosphere of the castle, which was already grim with the tidings of Lord Eddard's arrest, turned into one of deadly foreboding. Luwin's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"All of them, my Lord?" Maester Luwin asked. Robb knew what he was about to do was tantamount to high treason, but by the Gods old and new, he could not let the crimes of the House of Lannister against the House of Stark go unpunished. He narrowed his Tully-blue eyes.

"They've all sworn to defend my father, have they not?" Robb asked his oldest mentor.

"They have." Maester Luwin confirmed. Robb nodded.

"And now we'll see what their words are worth." He stated. Maester Luwin nodded and went off to his solar. Robb sat down, finding that he was now having trouble breathing, as if a great weight had pressed onto his chest.

"You afraid?" His best friend Theon asked, just now speaking up after the meeting. Robb held out his hand, which was shaking. Badly.

"I must be." Robb halfway joked. Afraid? He was downright terrified he was doing this, to be honest.

"Good." Theon complimented him. Now Robb was somewhat confused. How was being scared on the eve of war a good thing? "Why is that 'good'?" Theon smirked, though Robb could see through it to tell he was being serious.

"It means you're not stupid."

Around an hour or so later, just as the sun was setting on Winterfell, hundreds of ravens flew out in every direction. From Last Hearth to the Dreadfort and to Moat Calin, they brought the grim tidings of Winterfell and its command.

The North was riding south.

And winter was coming for the Lannisters at long last.

* * *

**One day later, Imperial-held island, hundred miles off the coast.**

**Decius**

* * *

"A bottle of Alto red wine!" Herman exclaimed, pulling off a bottle from one of Decius' liquor racks. "Dated 134 4E, even!" he exclaimed again, popping the cork off the bottle and pouring himself and Decius a glass. "Where did Crassus even find all this alcohol anyway?" he asked.

"From what I heard, the man was a smuggler operating in the Nibean Bay before being drafted into the Navy. He traded all sorts of contraband for any expensive liquor, or so what I was told. Sujama, Nord Mead, Colovian Brandy, Arbor wine, and so on. If it was a liquor, he traded you something for it." Decius stated, taking a sip of the wine that Herman set in front of him.

Herman gave a short laugh. "Haha! Don't let that old sea dog catch you saying that. He'd be liable to skin ya, sir!" Decius got a short chuckle out of that, knowing what a stingy old bastard Crassus was. As they talked and joked, drinking more of their wine, a messenger burst through the flap of the tent, red-faced and breathing hard, obviously after sprinting some distance. He was holding a rolled up letter of some kind. After catching his breath after a while, he saluted Decius.

"Sir…a raven flew in from Westeros…it's urgent, sir." Decius returned the salute, and took the letter from the messenger's hands. He noticed the color of the seal was red, not grey or black like the seals that Anslaf usually uses. He broke the seal, and began reading the letter.

Or what he could read of it.

"Damn, this must be serious." He muttered under his breath, before turning back to the messenger. "You're dismissed." He said, both saluting each other again before the messenger walked out the tent. He then sat back down at the table.

"What's the problem, sir?" Herman asked him.

"The damn message is encrypted, that's the problem." Decius replied, setting the coded letter down on the table. He looked back at his oldest friend and comrade. "I don't suppose you know how to decipher number code."

Herman's eyebrow's shot up in surprise. "Sir, that's one of the easiest codes to decipher!" he exclaimed, then laughed. "Of course I know how to, sir. Just surprised me that you didn't know how." Decius said nothing, and just handed the letter to Herman, along with a pen.

Around five minutes later, though to Decius it seemed to take longer, Herman was finally done deciphering the code. The grave look on his face now had Decius worried.

"Let me see that." Decius commanded. Herman handed the letter back to his commander, who began to read the now decoded message.

_**The carrot has failed to persuade. **_

_**It is time to switch to the stick.**_

_**The Dragon must aid the Wolf and the Trout.**_

_**ATTACK! ATTACK! ATTACK!**_

Decius put down the letter, and the look in his eyes would have been clear even to a blind man.

"Tell the centurions to meet here in thirty minutes." He commanded Herman. "Tell the men also to get packed up onto the galleons and ready to move out by nightfall." Herman stood up and saluted. When Decius returned the salute, Herman moved out the tent. And a few minutes later, the camp bell tolled, it's ringing signaling the start of a war that many men thought they should have never been involved in the first place.

_But they are Legionaries_. Decius thought as he packed this things. _They know their duty. And they will do their duty._

A few hours later, Decius's command tent was already packed up and on his ship. As he walked through what remained of the camp, with men rolling up tents, strapping their armor on, and loading up into the galleons, he looked at the flag that was fluttering in the cool evening breeze. An ebony dragon, shaped in the form of a diamond, superimposed over a field of crimson, with the Cyrodillic letters _S.P.Q.C_ in bright gold lettering centered beneath the dragon sigil. Upon gazing at that magnificent banner, which was now being flown from the top mast of his galleon, he reminded himself of the one thing he missed.

Home.

The gentle, rolling plains and forests of Cyrodiil. The harsh, yet beautiful tundra of Skyrim. The green hills and mighty mountains of High Rock. And even the sands of Hammerfell. Those provinces were all his home. The Empire was home. And he would lay down his life for his home. With one last sigh, Decius boarded the ship, and moved to his quarters.

When the sun finally set over the deep blue waters of the sea, signaling the beginning of night, the ships of the Ninth Legion and its two auxiliary regiments set sail. Not one sailor or soldier looked back upon the island which was their temporary home, as they instead looked forward, with grim eyes and hearts, upon the task they were called to do.

As Crassus split his squadron, which compromised the frigates and the ships-of-the-line, off from Decius's galleons, sailing toward their diversionary target, the commander had some time to reflect on the plans they had set. With timing, speed, and a small amount of luck, the war should hopefully be over by the end of the year. If not…

Decius put such thoughts aside as he stripped off his armor, and lay down in his bed. He stared at the ceiling of his cabin for a while, then drifted off to an uneasy sleep.

Come hell or high water, it was going to be a long war.

* * *

**One week later…18****th**** Hearthfire. Abandoned building, Flea Bottom, King's Landing.**

**Ansalf**

* * *

One by one, his crew had been filtered in from Winterfell. Save for Colette, whom he had commanded to stay in the Stark capital due to her inexperience with combat, they all came: Jordis the Sword-Maiden, Argis the Bulwark, Cosnach, Valdimar, Belrand, Marcurio, Stenvar, Teldryn, and Vorstag. And with Syrenne, Erik, Cyric, Thrynn, Rune, and Etienne rounding about the rest, they now had fifteen of the original seventeen in one place again. It was extremely risky for Anslaf, sending out coded messages on ravens, for he knew he was running the risk of getting his messages intercepted and deciphered. Thankfully, however, that hadn't seemed to be the case, as his men had made it in just fine to King's Landing. He still had no way of knowing, though, if his message to Decius had made it at all. The building they stayed in was fairly decent for a peasant dwelling, but to Anslaf, this house, if you could call it that, was a far cry from Lakeview Manor. His heart ached every time he thought about his wife and children.

_Focus. You will return to them in time. Concentrate on the here and now_. Anslaf told himself. And so he did.

"How well guarded are those dungeons?" Anslaf asked Syrenne, who was studying a map she had sprawled out on the floor.

"Too well for either myself or the boys to slip in unnoticed." She said, shaking her head. "And it seems the Queen has more than doubled the palace guard around the keep."

Anslaf sighed and propped down onto the floor next to Lady, deciding to scratch the direwolf behind the ears, though she just whined. Ever since their escape from the Tower of the Hand, Sansa's loyal pet had been in an unusual, but understandable, depression, due to her separation from her mistress. Anslaf couldn't help but pity her.

"I know how you feel." He said, his voice filled with understanding and sadness. Ever since he got to Westeros, it seemed nothing had gone his way. From Bran's fall to Lord Stark's arrest, everything seemed out of his grasp. And then, there was that small nagging voice of contempt, the one that kept on saying, 'Why do you bother with these useless lords and kings? The real threat is at the Wall! You are a fool to help the Westerosi in their struggle.' But Anslaf knew that unless there was another option, Westeros had to stand united against this threat. Neither he nor the Legion he had brought with him could remotely stand a chance alone, if what Paarthurnax had said about an army of over two hundred thousand White Walkers and five times as many wights was to be believed. And then there was the mysterious 'Azor Ahai' prophecy that stated a hero borne of ice and fire would defeat the great darkness. But so far, Anslaf had meet no one that even remotely matched the wording of the prophecy. And if what Paarthurnax said was true, unifying Westeros against the threat might be an exercise in futility if Azor Ahai was not found and trained in time. Which brought him back to his current dilemma; how to free the only man who was even remotely willing to listen to him in the first place. A knock on the door took him out of his thought patterns. He looked over and saw Cosnach approach cautiously, his hand resting on his sword hilt. He opened the door, and a cloaked Etienne stepped through, carrying a big, brown bag and looking giddy. Anslaf got on his feet, just as Etienne set his luggage down in the middle of the room. He remembered that Etienne had set out to do a little more digging for the group.

"What's got you so smiley?" Valdimar sarcastically asked him. Etienne smiled at the big brute of a Nord, and then turned back to the Blackwolf.

"First, I got all of you nice, used cloaks." He stated, pouring out the contents of the sack, which revealed dark, dingy brown cloaks for everyone in the group to wear. Anslaf was slightly curious now, as he looked at Etienne.

"I must ask, what purpose are we going to have with these? Sneaking around at night with these is only going to arouse suspicion." He pointed out. Etienne just chuckled, leaving the Dragonborn confused about what joke he must have missed. Fortunately for him, and Etienne, the thief clarified his position.

"No, silly! We aren't going to creep around in the dark with these." He said, motioning to the cloaks for dramatic effect. "We are going to hide in plain sight with them, and rescue Lord Stark and his family!"

"How?" Syrenne asked, tired and wanting to get to the point. Now Etienne made sure everyone was listening to him.

"When I was snooping around the taverns and brothels for information today, I just so happened to eavesdrop on a conversation between two Lannister guards and a City Watchman, all drunk and letting juicy secrets spill forth from their lips. Amazing what alcohol can do to otherwise competent people."

"The point, you buffoon?" Valdimar impatiently asked, waving his hand for dramatic effect.

"Tsk, you're too blunt, my good Nord." Etienne jokingly reprimanded. "But what I heard from those drunken soldiers, was that Eddard Stark will be taken a week from today to the Sept of Baelor, to confess to the crime of high treason."

Now Anslaf was really interested. "Do you know how tough the security will be for the event?" he asked.

"Surprisingly not that tough, in comparison to how well guarded the palace and the dungeons around here, and they will be spread out in an effort to contain the crowd if things get ugly. From what was also mentioned, the new king is offering Ned a deal; if he confesses that he plotted to murder Robert's children and take power for himself, then he will spare Lord Eddard's life and instead force him to join the Night's Watch."

Anslaf snorted. "Joffrey's too irrational and mentally unstable to hold to his word. He's more than likely to break the deal and execute Ned anyway out of spite." He shook his head. "No, the only chance Lord Eddard and Lady Sansa have is if we intervene during the confession." He looked around the room, crowded and dingy, to put it mildly. "I will not lie to any of you. There is a chance that we might fail. Some of us, if not all of us, may probably die in this attempt. But if we do not attempt to rescue Lord Stark and his daughters, our best chance of unifying Westeros may die with him."

"What about his son, Robb? Surely he will see the truth if we tell him." Cosnach asked.

"Robb Stark is an honorable man, much like his father." Anslaf confirmed. "But I fear his naiveté may split the realm in two if he decides to declare his independence from the Iron Throne." He countered. Everyone in the room fell silent. Anslaf continued. "Now the question remains; how to get into the crowd unseen."

And so they spent half the day and some of the night planning and revising, going over details of how to rescue Lord Eddard and his daughters, where the best routes for exit were, and the extremely likely possibility of fleeing by ship, as Dragonstone, the island held by Stannis Baratheon, was at least likely to be receptive, if not downright friendly, since Etienne had also informed them of how Lord Eddard was arrested in the first place, trying to secure the throne for its rightful heir, which was Stannis.

One thing Anslaf knew was for certain, however.

When the day of Ned Stark's confession came, the people of Westeros would finally know whom they were truly dealing with.

* * *

**A/N: Yet another chapter successfully completed. I hope this chapter cleared up some confusion for you guys, but I realize you must have some new questions as well, such as 'How can Anslaf send ravens out if he's in hiding?' For one, I went with a simple enumerated message, as complex encryptions and cipher machines did not exist in the Middle Ages. Secondly, ordinary messages are sent out every day in the capital, so a raven carrying a message would not have aroused suspicion. And even if they found the message, they would have a harder time decrypting it.**

**A second question you may have is "Hey, wait a minute! I didn't hear Parthy making those statements in chapter 2! What gives?"** **Let's just call it an off-screen conversation between the Dragonborn and the Grandmaster. And for the 200,000 WW/1,000,000 wights figure I gave out, I figured that from Spoiler: Sam's conversation with Bran at the end of Season three, when he said that he counted thousands of White Walkers, and that the dead who traveled with them were too vast to count. So, take it as you will.**

**Oh, and next chapter will open with something special I have had planned for a long time coming now. ;)**


	15. The Die is Cast

The Die is Cast.

* * *

**21 Hearthfire, 204 4E/298 AL.**

**Lannisport, Westerlands.**

**Bert**

* * *

It was, by all accounts and sights, a quite morning in Lannisport. A late summer's fog had settled over the harbor, giving the port a distinctly eerie feeling. That, however, did not worry the guardsman currently on watch in the top of the lighthouse, an old, crusty fellow by the name of Bert. A veteran of the Reyne Uprising, Robert's Rebellion, and the Greyjoy Rebellion, Bert had been transferred as a lighthouse watchman after he took an Ironborn's spear to his leg during the Siege of Pike nine years ago. In all honesty, Bert found it a boring job, watching the ships go to and fro, making sure the damned fire was always lit. Though he had to admit to himself, being in charge of the lighthouse- which doubled as a lookout tower in case if something like the Greyjoy raid ever happened again- had its perks. He got to order around poor green boys like it was no tomorrow, making them carry up the firewood, making them clean out the horn from time to time. It tended to balance out the boredom. At the moment, he was looking out over the bay, with two other guardsmen, Will and Tom, his compatriots from the Greyjoy war.

"I don't like it." Will muttered, clearly nervous about the early morning fog that had formed over the course of the night. "Something about this fog doesn't feel…natural."

"You survived all throughout a war with a bunch of fucking Ironborn scum trying to blade you, and you're worried about a little old fog?" Tom scoffed, clearly unimpressed. "I swear, that mace that hit you upside the helm did more damage than I thought."

Will narrowed his eyes at him. "Fuck off, Tom. I don't get scared for nothing. It's just that I'm concerned with why this fog don't seem to be lifting!" He yelled at Tom. Before Tom could retort any further, Bert yelled at the both of them.

"You can _both_ shut yer yaps, ye morons!" Bert glared at the both of them. "Look, we're getting off in an hour anyway, and I can finally get some shut eye before next shift. So, can ya both shut up for at least till then?" When they both glared at him, yet did not say another word, Bert silently declared his victory and looked out toward the north. Although it wasn't visible with the fog, the only impregnable fortress in Westeros, Casterly Rock, was just a few miles away, standing ever proud and watchful. Bert had never been to the fortress-seat of the House of Lannister himself, but he had once hoped that he would've been promoted to a household guard of one of the Lannisters. He would've even settled on being one of the Imp's guards, if it meant living in the golden seat of the Westerlands. But, as he figured out long ago, you had to have certain connections, and know certain people. Which meant the common soldier like him usually got screwed over, hence his assignment as a glorified lookout. Will pulled him back out of his thoughts, however.

"Oi! Bert! Looks like we got vessels coming into the harbor!" Will called out. Bert turned his gaze away from Casterly Rock and walked over to where his comrades were, and looked to where Will was pointing. Sure enough, Bert could clearly see the shadowy forms of at least three ships sailing into harbor. He thought little of it at first, but then the ships became larger coming closer, and three ships became six, then nine, and then fifteen. The more and more he gazed upon them, the more and more he was becoming worried. Neither merchant vessels nor fishing boats came this large, and they didn't travel in groups numbering more than four or five at a time.

"Tom." He began, using his most authoritative voice possible. "Get me the spying glass." Tom nodded and ran down the stairs. He quickly returned with a collapsible spying glass, which he handed to Bert. The aging soldier quickly took the telescope and put it up to his eye, extending the spying glass all the way. He could now see shapes, people more to be precise, moving about the decks on the ships. He could also now determine the size of the ships. Ten of them were as big as dromonds, bristling with scorpions from stem to stern, and each of those smaller ships had one ballista on them, set on a rotating turret. The remaining five, however, were what had Bert worried more. These five ships had to be the biggest vessels he had ever seen in his fifty-eight years of life, at least two times bigger than a standard dromond. Each of these large ships carried many more scorpions than the smaller ships, and came complimented with not one, but _two_, rotating ballista. Now going beyond concern into dread, Bert turned his gaze up to the main mast of what he presumed to be the flagship of the squadron, his hands shaking, trying to keep their grip on the spying glass. At first, through the fog, he saw a dark flag flying on the top of the main mast. But as the mist mysteriously lifted, he got a much, much better view of the colors the ships were bearing.

The flag was a rich mahogany shade of red, with an onyx dragon, wings outstretched, superimposed on the banner. At first, Bert had thought the flag to be a banner of the House of Blackfyre, as the color scheme matched the cadet house of the Targaryens that had long plagued Westeros. But then Bert realized something; both the Blackfyre and Targaryen dragon sigils were shaped like a circle, with three heads gracing their bodies. The sigil being born by these vessels, however, was far different. It was, for starters, shaped like a kite or a diamond to Bert, and only had one head compared to the Targaryen three.

Bert dropped the spyglass. He could not give voice to his horror at first, stuttering like he did when he was just a fresh faced lad, all those years ago.

"Bert?" Will asked, concerned with his friend's behavior. Bert finally found his voice, though it only started out as a whisper.

"Imperials." He barely managed to croak out. Tom must not have heard him, for Tom confusedly asked. "What?" This time Bert did find his voice.

"IT'S THE FUCKING IMPERIAL NAVY, YOU CUNTS!" He yelled at the very top of his lungs, his voice now full of urgency and fear. He turned to Will. "Get on the fucking horn! Go! The gods damned Empire is attacking us!" As Will turned and ran to blow the horn, trying to warn Lannisport of the impending attack, Bert turned back to look out back at the ships.

The last thing he ever saw, before his world exploded into bright yellow and brief, searing pain before emptying into nothingness, was a fiery, large projectile flying straight at him.

* * *

**Tywin**

**One day later, near the east bank of the Green Fork River, Riverlands.**

* * *

To call the Warden of the West furious at the news of the raid at Lannisport would've been akin to calling water wet, and a gross understatement at that. He had received a raven from Casterly Rock about two hours ago bearing the grim tidings, and was now holding a war council with his brother, Kevan, his best generals, including Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Gregor Clegane, and his dwarf son, Tyrion, who had apparently been liberated from the Eyrie and had arrived at his camp with an escort of about a hundred stinking hill folk from the Vale. Tywin had to bite back a scoff. _Always the one to bring shame to our family, my pathetic excuse for a son_. He turned his attention away from Tyrion, however, when Kevan began to speak.

"Our fleet totally destroyed, wiped out while they were docked." Kevan began, just as angry about this news of betrayal by whom the Westerlands had once counted among as good acquaintances; the word 'friends' really didn't give off the right meaning to the previous relationship. "Our harbor nearly wiped out, along with all the warehouses. Nearly _three hundred_ soldiers and sailors killed, with another two hundred and thirty wounded." He finished, looking up to his older brother.

"The Empire will pay for this!" Ser Addam exclaimed. Almost every general agreed with him, to varying degrees.

"We should take the fight to their lands, their women, and their blood!" Ser Gregor yelled, living up to his reputation as a bloodthirsty killer.

"We need to deal with the Riverlanders and the Stark boy first." Another general, Lord Flemet Brax, argued.

"Are you forgetting that we have no fleet with which to sail to Tamriel, now?" Leo Lefford countered, waving his hand for effect. "And we now have a damaged port."

"We should send diplomatic overtures to the Dominion." Lewys Lydden suggested, earning murmurs of discontent and counters.

"We may not have to go to Tamriel." Lord Wylis Serret opinioned, gesturing to the large map on the table. "Our scouts report an Imperial host has managed to land near Seaguard. They seem to have made common cause with Robb Stark, and are now marching with his host south."

"How many men in both hosts?" Tywin asked, his cold logical mind already running through several plans.

"We estimate at least fifteen thousand for the Imperial army, and since Robb Stark gained an alliance with Walder Frey at the Twins, he appears to be marching towards us with around twenty-two thousand men in tow."

"So he wishes to throw himself into the lion's jaws." Tywin smirked. The boy may have courage and the loyalty of his host, but he lacked intelligence if he thought that he, a green lordling, could take on the mighty Lion of the Rock on his own.

A trait that he shared with his father, it seemed.

"It doesn't matter if Robb Stark has thirty-seven thousand swords or not. He cannot face the might of the Westerlands." He took a moment to consider. "As for the Imperial aggression, we will defeat their host on the field, and remind that arrogant Emperor that Lannisters always pay their debts, when we send him back his commander's head on a pike." Everyone in the room seemed to murmur in agreement. "But…" he continued. "I will under no circumstance allow the Crown to ally itself with the Aldmeri Dominion. I'd rather appoint my horse as my lawful heir, than to stoop to the demands of slavers and vagabonds." He looked at all his generals. "Do I make myself abundantly clear?"

All his generals nodded.

"Good." He turned back to his brother. "Ser Kevan, I want you to ride to Lannisport with three thousand men. Reinforce the city, and if the Empire is so foolish to attack us there again, I want you to utterly crush them before our walls." Kevan nodded, and got up out his seat, intent now on gathering his men.

"What about Ser Jaime?" Lord Brax asked. Tywin eyed him with an expression that bordered between mild amusement and annoyance.

"My son is safe, away from this battle." Lord Tywin declared. "And even if Robb Stark decides to throw his might at his host, I have left him with good generals in his war council. Either way, the Stark boy will either submit or be destroyed." He declared with finality. When asked by Tyrion if he would have a command, he replied. "I am moving Ser Addam to command the center in the coming battle. Ser Gregor will command the left, and Lord Leo Lefford will command the right. I will command our reserves." He stated, not bothering to glance over to his son.

"So where does that leave me?" Tyrion asked again, trying to reach for the wine. Tywin stopped him, and then reached for the wine flask and poured a cup for Tyrion.

"You will command the vanguard in Ser Gregor's left flank. I see those putrid tribesmen of yours are, oddly enough, capable warriors." Tywin coldly stated.

"Capable?" Tyrion began. "Last night, Timett tried to bite Shaga's ear off, and a Black Ear split open a Burned Man's head with his club. Now they are demanding blood money…" Tyrion trailed off as he apparently realized what his father was implying.

"If the troops are undisciplined, it's the commander who is at fault." Tywin coolly scolded, to which Tyrion fumed.

"There are ways to get rid of me that are less detrimental to the war effort-," Tyrion began to object, but Tywin cut him off.

"There will be _no_ _more_ discussion on this matter." Tywin dismissed, not bothering to look up as his runt of a son muttered something and waddled his way out of the tent. All his generals looked at him strangely, except for Gregor, who shared Lord Tywin's hatred for the Imp. "Now, if that's enough dawdling, you are all dismissed." As the rest of his generals moved out of the tent, Tywin studied the map, his cold, green eyes gazing over the space he was currently occupying, a section of the Riverlands between the Green Fork and the Kingsroad, right before the Ruby Ford. Here would be the most important battle of his life, more so than his crushing victory over Victor Reyne during the Cleansing of Castamere all those years ago.

_A Lannister always pays his debts, Antonius Mede. A lesson you shall be reminded of when I send the corpses of your legions back to you in coffins._

* * *

**Decius**

**Twenty miles north, marching towards Lord Tywin's army.**

* * *

Nothing in Decius' opinion quite projected an aura of authority and power like a well-disciplined legion and it's auxiliaries on the march. The drums and the trumpets provided the cadence, their rhythmic beat keeping the men in step, as the massive column marched toward Lord Tywin Lannister and his army of 33,000 men.

Decius knew he was outnumbered two to one, if the scouts were to be believed, both in infantry, and in cavalry. He prayed to the Divines that the ploy worked and Tywin had split off at least a part of his forces to reinforce his seat of power. He also figured that, as a noble, Lord Tywin was reasonably well learned, and had probably heard of the Empire's woes during the Great War and its aftermath. He figured that the Lord of the Rock would see only a broken force; a desperate, last attempt at grabbing glory by a dying Empire in it's final, struggled gasp for breath as the walls slowly closed in around it. He banked on Tywin becoming overconfident of his chances and, hopefully, making a rookie mistake. He did have a secondary battle plan drawn up, however, if it turned out the Lord of the Westerlands was far more cautious than previously thought.

"So, sir, what do you think of our chances in the coming battle?" Herman asked, riding next to him at the head of the column, along with the rest of the command staff.

"You know me well, old friend." Decius began, flashing his subordinate a grim smile. "I try not to leave things to chance." In truth, he knew that against an experienced commander like Lord Tywin, anything could go wrong.

"Well." Herman began. "As you pointed out yourself before, we do have the advantage of battle mages, and _that_ is something that Tywin will neither have nor expect from us."

Decius had to admit that Herman brought up a good point. Most in Westeros had no experience with magic, and those that did only had rudimentary experience with restoration, not any of the advanced schools such as conjuration and illusion. "I have to ask though, sir." Herman continued. "Why not surprise the Lion by striking at the dead of night, while he is sleeping soundly?" Decius chewed over how to respond to this inquiry, then looked at his second in command, a look of steely determination in his eye.

"When I met with Robb Stark and his mother the other day, they had told me that Lord Tywin had never lost a war before. This has made him arrogant, as few in Westeros now dare to oppose his wrath." His voice became like iron then. "I intend to break him; crush the lion's pride. I want him to watch as his army is annihilated by ours, before we either drag him away in chains or we end his life by shoving a sword through his throat. I want him to know that even in the moment of his final defeat, he will take no comfort in Oblivion." He finished, turning his head to look forward again.

Herman didn't say anything, as the two rode onwards to the predetermined camp site picked out by their scouts. As they neared their destination, Decius finally had had enough of the boring, somber tone played by the trumpeters and the drummers.

"Bacchius, play something a little more cheerful." He commanded the officer in charge of the band behind him. Not a few seconds later, a more soothing, yet grand, tone erupted from the marching band, elevating the mood by a slight margin, as the Legion marched to its place in the annals of history.

The die is cast, and there can now be no turning back.

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter done. Sorry about the long update. I just wanted to take a break from writing for a little while and spend time with my family over Christmas break. But now that I am back to posting regular updates, I will tell you this; the next chapter will be by far the longest I have planned yet, and one that I have been looking forward to for a very long time.**

**The song Decius commands played is the same one at the end of S1E3 of HBO's Rome. Bonus points goes to whomever guesses the reference made in the beginning of the chapter.**


	16. Green Fork, Crimson Fields

Green Fork, Crimson Fields

"_It is just that the Gods made war so terrible to behold, else we might become disturbingly pleased by it." – Centurion Marcus Cornelius Cethegus on the aftermath of the Battle of the Green Fork._

* * *

**Dawn, 23 Hearthfire, 204 4E/298 AL**

**Near the eastern bank of the Green Fork River, Riverlands.**

**Tywin**

* * *

The rays of the sun had begun to creep over the horizon to the east, signaling the beginning to another late summer's day.

But for the Lord of Casterly Rock, the day had begun early, when one of Marbrand's outriders had galloped into camp and burst into his tent, informing him that the Imperial host was now about five miles outside the camp. He had quickly gotten dressed, had his squire armor him up in the speediest manner possible, and was now attending an emergency meeting with his generals in the command tent.

"My scouts report the Imperial host has drawn up battle formation, and is holding position between the river and the King's Road five miles to the north." Ser Addam stated, putting his index finger on the spot where they had spotted the Imperial Legion.

"What are the disposition of their forces?" Tywin asked, keeping an open mind on how to defeat this opponent.

"From what it looks like, all infantry." Addam stated, sounding surprised himself at this information. Everyone else in the tent besides Tywin started to laugh at the Imperial's apparent stupidity. For who brought only infantry to a battlefield in this day and age?

Tywin scoffed. "So they are as foolish as they are stupid." He looked down at the map, and started moving several pieces into place. "Lord Lefford, you will take our heavy horse and strike their right flank. Ser Gregor, you will take your cavalry and smash their left. Ser Addam, you will command the infantry in the center, and overwhelm the legionaries opposing you." He paused to look at his commanders. "We will surround and annihilate the Imperials, and send their Legate's head back to the Emperor on a platter. After that, we will rejoin Ser Jaime and finish besieging Rivverun." He folded up the map. "Go to your men, and may the gods go with you." As he exited his tent, he looked toward were the Imperial Army was supposed to be, and he coldly stared across the vast space, intent on bringing the Empire to heel.

About an hour later, the Lannister host, thirty-three thousand men in all, arrived two miles away from the Imperial legion. Tywin Lannister eyed the assembled armies before him, and ran his mind through the gauntlet of several possibilities. For all his bluster about the inferiority of his enemies, he knew it would be a hard fight from the start. He was no fool; he had read the reports that came out of Tamriel after the Dominion's hard won -many would have gone out on a limb and called it pyrrhic- victory over the Empire at the end of the Great War. Although the Empire had lost three entire legions, twelve auxiliary regiments, and the rest of its forces sitting at only half strength by the end of the war, the Dominion had lost three entire field armies in Cyrodiil alone, most of which compromised the cream of Altmer and Bosmer youth, and had lost an additional two armies in Hammerfell; most dying of thirst and starvation in the vast Alikir desert. This drastic loss of life had forced the Thalmor to rely upon mostly Khajit warriors, as they were by far the most numerous of those who had taken up the standard of the golden eagle of Aldmeris. It was a testament to their skills in diplomacy, espionage, and manipulation that the Thalmor had managed to come up with the upper hand in the end, as any other opponent would have capitulated to the Empire after such harrowing losses. He brought himself out of such thoughts and commanded one of his servants to bring him his looking glass. The servant ran to him, a telescoping looking glass in his hand, and gave his liege lord the device. Tywin took it and looked across at the Imperial line. As he expected, many of them were armored in the Empire's signature armor; segmented plate armor. Many more, he noticed, had chosen to armor themselves in tightly woven, steel chainmail hauberks, which were famous for their low maintenance and rugged durability, and all of them had gambesons on underneath, and most of them were armed with sharp short swords, powerful javelins, and large tower shields.

"Well." He began to say to one of the lords near him, Lord Flemet Brax. "Let's get our men motivated for this fight." He spurred his horse onwards to the front lines. A few minutes later, he ridden to the center of the front line, and turned his horse so he could face his men.

"Men, today is a good day for a battle! Our Imperial foes have never faced a foe such as us before. If I were them, I'd be shaking at the thought of facing the House of Lannister and the mighty Westerlands!" A cheer erupted from the men, though not as loud as Tywin would have hoped. "Today, we outnumber our hapless foes nearly two to one. I expect each and every one of you to cut down at least five of those Imperial fops. And to the man who brings me the legate's head, I will reward you with knighthood and lands!" He raised his sword in the air. "Now lift your banners and march away. To battle, you good Westerlanders, and a victorious day." The cheer that erupted from the Lannister army was enough to shake the trees in the nearby forest next to the river, and the ground beneath their feet to reverberate. Tywin smirked and rode off to rejoin his reserves, confident that the Imperials would soon be crushed by his men.

* * *

**Decius**

* * *

"Well, seems they're excited about something." Herman remarked sarcastically, indicating the distant cheering from the Lannister army. Decius could only smirk in amusement. Herman turned and grinned. "I'm assuming you've already gotten a counter speech planned out?" He asked jokingly, already knowing the answer.

"Oh, nothing special…" was Decius's humorous reply as the two galloped toward the front lines at full gallop. They arrived not a minute later, and then, unbeknownst to all, Decius would give one of the most important speeches in his career.

"Men! The battle is inevitable, but victory hangs in the balance! Do your duty as true sons of Tamriel, and victory will be within our grasp!" He drew his sword, and waved it over toward the enemy army. "Over their stands the army of the House of Lannister; men more suited to bullying peasants than actually fighting." This got a hearty laugh out of his legionaries, so he continued on. "So what if they outnumber us? Each one of them is worth less than the dirt beneath our toenails! My _grandmother_ can take on this lot, so we will be more than fine!" This got another cheer from the men. "We will never know defeat while we stand together! This day we add another triumph to the history of our people! We will be honored as men!" Another cheer erupted, this one even louder than the last. But Decius was saving the best for last. "And remember this above all: our Aedric Gods are watching, MAKE SURE THEY ARE NOT ASHAMED!"

At this the largest cheer that had ever been heard by Decius promptly shook the heavens themselves. Men banged their swords on their shields, and pounded spears and javelins on the ground, and chanted to the gods the name of this one man, their one leader whom has been with many of these men through hell and back.

"MAXIMUS! MAXIMUS! MAXIMUS!"

He and Herman rode from the front lines back to his command position, the top of a gently sloping hill that the legion was positioned around. When they reached the command position, Herman turned to him.

"So sir, I guess this is it." Herman said with a wry smile. Decius returned the grim grin and nodded.

"Aye, I guess so. You remember the plan?" Decius asked.

"Down to the last period, sir." Herman replied. He then took Decius's hand and shook it.

"Strength and honor, sir."

"Strength and honor."

At that, Herman rode off to join the cavalry, which was hidden in one of the forests near the road. Decius turned his horse to where the battle was beginning to unfold. He saw from his vantage point that Tywin was beginning to move his forces out. As he predicted, the greatest portion of his strength-his infantry- was placed in the center, with two strong cavalry wings on both flanks, both containing a mix of light and heavy melee cavalry. Another officer rode up beside him, this one wearing the robes and armor of a Captain of the Battlemage Corps.

"Are your mages prepared, Publius?" he asked the young captain, Publius Cornelius Scipio Magnus.

"Yes, Legate! My men stand ready." Publius answered his commander readily. Decius smiled grimly.

"Good. Then work your illusion magic, and may the gods be with you." Decius commanded. Publius responded by nodding and giving him an Imperial salute, which Decius returned, before riding toward the right flank, to where his men were waiting. Decius looked one more time at the unfolding battle before him, and turned his head up to the heavens.

"Akatosh, do not fuck me now."

* * *

**Leo Lefford**

* * *

Lord Leo of the House of Lefford was, by all accounts, not Twyin's first choice when it comes to command on the field, for he was a man more useful in a defensive siege battle or making sure that supplies got to the camps on time, though he could sufficiently command an army on the field if he absolutely had to. Because of him being passed over for independent command so many times beforehand, however – due to Lord Tywin being more partial to men like Ser Addam and Ser Kevan- he was known as being particularly bitter.

That was, however, until the trouble with the Imperials.

Now, he had a jubilant air about him, and if he had to admit, he was feeling particularly ecstatic. This was his chance to prove to his liege lord that his place was on the field of battle, not guarding the Golden Tooth or watching grain stores and wagon trains. He took a look at the unprotected right flank of the Imperials, and smiled. This was his day, his moment of glory! And he wasn't going to let some hotshot like Marbrand to outshine him today. He turned to his men, five thousand mounted knights and men-at-arms, all armed with deadly lances. This was the moment that he had been waiting for all his years.

"Men, form up and advance on me. When we are in a hundred yards' reach of the Imperial lines, we charge full gallop and cut into them like a sword through butter!"

This got a small cheer out of his men. He then nodded to the trumpeter, who sounded the advance. Five thousand Lannister cavalry then formed up for advance and entered a flying wedge formation. The riders rode along at jogging speed, spaced out a little in order to prevent enemy arrows or javelins taking down a large number of men before they got to the lines. As they got closer, Leo and his men spurred their horses on. Faster and faster they went, as they closed up their formation when they reached around two hundred yards or so. At around a hundred yards, Leo waved his sword.

"This is it, men! For honor! For glory! CHARGE!"

At that, the trumpeter sounded the signal for charge, and five thousand horsemen lowered their lances and charged full speed at the Imperial right.

_This was it. This was the moment many of the men have been waiting for-_

Leo lost his train of thought as he was suddenly catapulted in the air, flying forward only to have the ground meet his face. After a few disorienting moments, he finally got up, and looked back behind him. What he saw had him confused, angry, and most importantly, afraid.

A mere fifty yards from the Imperial lines, there were caltrops, stakes, pit traps, and sharpened stones, all running perpendicular from the Imperial right flank. What unnerved Leo, is that neither he nor his men had seen something that should have been so obvious from a distance. It was as if these traps simply appeared from thin air at the last moment. Now, many of his men found themselves either impaled on wooden stakes or wounded and without mounts. Leo didn't have time to dwell on such thoughts as he found another horse whose rider had been ridden through by a stake, and mounted it, as he attempted to rally his remaining men, about three thousand in all. It was at this moment that he heard the thundering of hooves coming from the forest near the river, and his worried expression turned to one of absolute horror when he saw two thousand northern cavalry, all bearing the banners of the House Stark. As his men were trying to reorganize themselves, amid the now constant shower of arrows and javelins, which took down another seven hundred men, at least, they stood almost no chance at countering the charge. A tide of grey and brown crashed into a now motely group of crimson figures, who now began to panic and fight like the devil for their lives, a fact that was not lost on Leo, who was looking around at the carnage in front of him with wide eyes, breathing heavily and stuttering.

_Sir?_

_SIR?_

"SIR!" one of the surviving men called out. Leo looked at him, dazed and confused. "What should we do now?"

Leo took one last look around him, with men dying all around, and finally finding his voice, he screamed.

"RETREAT! FALL BACK TO THE RESERVES! RETREAT!"

At that, he took off back to where Lord Tywin was, bringing with him around fifteen hundred survivors- many of them wounded- out of an original force of five thousand men. The flanking maneuver on the Imperial right had failed.

* * *

**Tywin**

* * *

As the few remaining survivors from Lord Leo's failed charge on the right flank trickled in, the Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West was slowly losing his temper. One of his armored fists for which he had intended to envelop and crush the legion was gone, which left only Ser Gregor on the Imperial left, and Ser Addam marching toward the center with the infantry. He knew he had to change his battle plan significantly if he wanted to pull this off. He motioned to one of his bodyguards, a man by the name of Wilem, and pointed to where Ser Addam was; in the middle of the huge triple stack of swordsmen, pike men, axe men, spearmen, and halberdiers.

"Guard, I need you to deliver a message of utmost importance." Tywin began. "Tell Ser Addam that he is to concentrate his might into the weakest point of the center." He said, pointing to the exact middle of the Imperial lines, which only looked about five men deep at the most. "But also inform him that he is not to overcommit his forces. He either must see a breach before taking the initiative, or he must hold until Ser Gregor can break through the Imperial left. Are we clear?"

"Yes, my lord." Wilem gave a quick nod to his liege lord, and rode off to deliver the message to the heir of Ashenmark. Tywin stared after him for a little while, then turned his head to where Ser Gregor was making his attack on the left flank…

* * *

It is often said that the events that change the course of history can be the result of something seemingly small and insignificant. Case in point, a small pitfall, no more than a foot in depth and diameter, out in the middle of a grassy field between the Green Fork River and the Kingsroad. It was this small, unassuming pit that a horse, whom was carrying a rider who had an important – nay, urgent- message to deliver to the commander of the Lannister center, stepped in, breaking its ankle, and sending it's rider flying forward at break neck speeds.

And break his neck he did, as he landed right on his trachea, rupturing it and snapping his neck like a twig. He was dead in an instant, his message never getting to the intended recipient. And so, the battle would be drastically altered…

* * *

**Herman**

* * *

Waiting…

Herman hated waiting. And yet, he had to wait.

He had to wait for Tywin's attack on the left flank, which was composed of two thousand of their auxiliary spearmen. He had to wait until the Lannister cavalry were bogged down by the fighting, then rush in with his own heavy cavalry and finish them off. He had to wait until he saw crimson and gold clash with maroon and ebony.

And so, he waited. But he did not have to wait for too long.

He heard the thunder of many hooves, the whinnying of horses. He saw, from their concealed position in the forest near the road, men mostly covered in head to toe in crimson plate and padded jerkins, waving various banners of all makes and colors, ranging from the familiar golden lion of the Lannisters, to three black dogs passant on a field of gold. The Lannister cavalry, within reaching a hundred yards from the lines of the auxiliaries, charged full force, trumpets blaring and men yelling war cries as the formation closed up into a flying wedge. The auxiliaries, for their part, locked their oval shields together, shoulder to shoulder, and lowered their spears to await the oncoming charge. The two forces met, a crashing of crimson lions against a wall of maroon dragons. The proverbial unstoppable force meeting the immovable object. Some auxiliaries were sent flying by the horses, others fell, being skewered by lances, but the vast majority held the shield wall, blunting the Lannister charge, and sending hundreds of horses and riders to their graves by the way of the spear.

This, then. This was the moment.

Herman drew his sword, and pointed toward where the Lannisters were stuck.

"On me, men!" he yelled. "Let's send these bastards screaming back into the afterlife. VICTORY, OR SOVNGARDE!"

With that, two thousand heavy Redguard cavalry auxiliaries, second only to the Dothraki in terms of horsemanship, let out a great yell, as they formed up into a wedge and charged at the enemy. Herman spurred his horse faster, a deep battle cry erupting from his throat, as the rest of his men lowered their lances and spurred their horses on at full gallop.

The Lannister cavalry, too preoccupied dealing with the spearmen in front of them, were thrown into confusion and chaos as the Imperial cavalry crashed into their rear full speed, like a tsunami breaking onto a wooden shed. Hundreds of Lannister knights and men-at-arms were skewered on lances, and a general chaotic melee broke out between the now outnumbered Lannisters and the Imperials. Steel rang like thunder, as a storm of swords swirled around that section of the battlefield. The screams of the wounded and the dying made up for a haunting opera of souls, singing their death song as they either entered the joyous fields of Aetherius, or were dragged down into the gapping maw of Oblivion. It mattered not to Herman, for he was having a field day.

Battle was what the old Nordic veteran of 62 years truly lived for. He felt in his element as his _spatha _cleaved through an unlucky Lannister man-at-arms' neck, while bashing another one of his horse with his _cetratus_. The smell and taste of blood was polluting the late morning air, a combination that made the old warrior feel definitely more alive, as he plunged his sword into the carotid artery of a Crakehall knight, the blade going piercing all the way to his heart. He withdrew the sword, allowing the now dead knight to slide off his horse. He looked around for his next target, when he was knocked off his horse. Herman fell to the ground on his back, quickly getting back up, and looking around for who could knock him off his steed. His eyes went wide when he saw the culprit.

The man responsible, if you could call it a man, was a huge, hulking beast, easily towering over Herman by a good foot and a half. The monstrosity was covered from head to toe in menacing dark armor, made of plate, chain, and leather, which looked far too heavy and cumbersome for a normal man to wear, and yet this thing wore it like one would wear a simple tunic. The beast with one hand was carrying a large heater shield, and with the other, a large greatsword that would require even a Nord to carry with two hands. Herman did not know it at the time, but he was about to go face to face with Ser Gregor Clegane, the most feared knight in all of Westeros.

Herman was first to speak, even as the battle waged all around him. "And who might you be, Lannister dog?" he taunted, even as he had sheathed his sword and grabbed a discarded spear. Somehow he figured that the key to surviving against this _man_ was to keep out of reach of his sword as much as possible, and try to whittle down his health bit by bit. The problem was, Herman knew that, due to age, he would likely be slower than the gigantic Clegane in front of him, and thus more prone to mistakes.

Gregor snarled, though Herman couldn't see the sneer due to helmet Gregor wore. "You ask who I am, old man. I am The Mountain. I. AM. DEATH!" Gregor bellowed, and charged at Herman, raising his great sword above his hand for an overhead strike. Herman raised his shield above his head just in time, and blocked Gregor's downward swing. The force of the blow drove him down to one knee, as it cracked and dented his shield in several places. He immediately thrust with his spear, which Gregor jump away from with an inhuman quickness. The Mountain then swung his sword sideways, intent on bisecting the older prefect. Herman just barely managed to roll out of the way in time. He stood back up and thrust his spear at Gregor's exposed armpit. The Lannister knight blocked it out of his way with his shield, and then brought his sword down on the shaft of the spear, snapping the weapon in have. Herman discarded the now useless shaft and drew his sword, knowing now that his chances for survival, let alone victory, just plummeted drastically. He knew that he could not either overpower or out speed Gregor, and the man still looked relatively fresh, while he was beginning to breathe just a bit harder, as his stamina wasn't what it used to be. Herman knew, then, that this would be his ascent to Sovngarde; dying a warrior's death and gaining entry to Shor's Hall of Valor. Herman nodded to himself before going on the attack, thrusting at Gregor's chinks in the armor, actually getting a few solid cuts in while managing to knock off his helmet, and blocking with his shield, which was getting weaker by the blow. Finally, one last swing of the Mountain's blade snapped the shield in half, breaking his arm in the process, and Gregor followed up by kicking Herman in the middle of his breastplate, sending the Nordic prefect sprawling on to the ground. Herman saw stars for a moment, then his vision refocused to see the Mountain standing over him, his sword dripping with the blood of his previous victims and helmetless. Herman sighed and looked up into the cold, hate-filled eyes of his soon to be killer.

"Just make it quick, son. I have an appointment with someone I'd like to keep." He chuckled, closing his eyes, and awaiting the final blow.

_SWHIIIIIIIIIIICK!_

Herman heard the sound of a pilum sticking into flesh, and heard a scream that sounded like it came from the deepest cavern. He opened his eyes to see the Mountain grasping desperately at a spear that was sticking through his mid-section. Siezing the opportunity, Herman grabbed his sword, stood up-despite the main in his arm- and, with a mighty effort, shoved his sword through the bottom of Gregor's mouth, and out the top of his head. Gregor was alive for a split second, a look of horror and seething rage plastered on his face, choking on his own blood, before his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, while Herman withdrew his sword.

Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain that Rides. The most feared and hated being in all of Westeros, was now dead. Killed. No longer able to trouble the realms of men and mer.

Herman however, wasn't concerned about any of that. As the fighting died around him, an Imperial cavalryman came up beside him.

"Sir, we've utterly crushed their cavalry. Over forty-five hundred of theirs lie dead on this field!"

"What of the other five hundred Lannisters?"

"They escaped back to their reserves, along with their runt of a commander."

"And our own losses?" Herman asked, dreading the answer.

"Around six hundred dead, sir, with another two hundred wounded." The Redguard informed him. Herman sighed. Six hundred dead. That was not what he was wanting to hear right now, but he supposed it could have been worse. He would have to mourn the dead later. Right know he needed to lead his cavalry to victory. He walked over to his horse, which was surprisingly still alive and just a few yards away. He looked back at the Redguard, and said. "Now before you tell me that I need to get back to the rear to heal, you can just drop that fucking statement right there. I'm getting back to the rest of the men so we can finish this fight."

"Yes, sir." The cavalryman replied stoically.

"Oh, and before we go, which one of the soldiers threw that pilum?" Herman asked.

"Sir, I believe that was Decurion Armand Dorian that did that." The trooper replied, pointing to one of the Auxilia.

"Well, then. I'll see about putting in a promotion for him once the battle is over." Herman said. At that, a familiar horn blasted. It was the fall back signal. Herman grinned.

_So, the trap is sprung_.

Herman mounted his horse, and called his men forth, so that they could complete the final phase of Decius' master plan.

* * *

**Addam Marbrand**

* * *

Ser Addam Marbrand was the most dashing and daring of Lord Tywin's battle commanders, always taking the initiative and exploiting weak points and gaps in the enemy lines. Some older, more conservative commanders would call the man reckless, even foolhardy, but Ser Addam just considered himself bolder than the others. And the Imperials had a saying, _Fortuna Audaces Iuvat_, or "Fortune favors the bold." He has applied that saying to great success in many raids and battles.

But today, things seemed to go a little differently than he had hoped.

It had begun well enough. He had the archers in his ranks engage with the main line of Imperial legionaries and their own archers, though it did little good, as the legionaries had blocked most of the arrows with their shields in a defensive tortoise formation, and their archers had counter fired into his own, sending at least two hundred of them into the afterlife. Then, his Lannister infantry, going for a deep formation, crashed into the dead center of the Imperial lines, intent on killing the Legate at the top of the hill. At first, his men seemed to drop like flies in the face of the Imperials' superiority in training and tactics. But he knew that he had the superiority of numbers on his side, and eventually the Imperials had started to give way. The men had seen the center start to crumble, and they, like himself, eagerly awaited breaking it.

"Forward, my brothers" he yelled, "Into the breach for honor and glory."

The Lannister's let out a great cheer, and rushed to the center, bumping in to each other and knocking each other over for a chance to kill the legate. Ser Addam's smile faded, however, as he saw something going on with his men. So many of them were rushing into the breach that it was becoming much too crowded; he could scarcely move his horse without bumping into another soldier. Pretty soon, he could not move his horse at all. Many of the men could not lift their blades or their shields.

He looked back at the center of the Imperial lines. He was frankly surprised to see the Empire still holding. It was entirely strange to see from where he was from that the legionaries had stopped their falling back, and were now digging back in, again cutting down his men with their _gladii_ like hot knives through cold butter. It was almost as if-

He looked on, aghast in horror, as the full realization of what the Imperials were doing finally hit him, like a shield to the face.

Finally, he saw the danger.

"Stop!" He yelled. "Stop! I command you all to halt! We're walking right into a TRAP! THEY'RE TRYING TO ENCIRCLE US!"

Despite his screams, his signals, him flapping his arms about like a madman, none of his men seemed to hear him, as they pressed forward with the assault. He look on in gut churning dread, as the bodies of his men started to pile up.

Suddenly, he heard sounds of battle from his right. He turned his head to see that the Imperial left flank had closed in on him and hit him on the right. He then heard screams and the din of battle on the left, and he turned again to see that the Imperial right flank had smashed into his left. The Lannister infantry, once proud and fierce and eager, began to panic.

He was beginning to panic.

"Everyone, fall back! Fall back! We cannot let ourselves become trapped!" He thought of his wife, his beautiful wife, and his precious young son, barely three namedays old. He didn't want to die on this forsaken plain. He wanted to go home to Ashenmark, and see his proud father again, along with the rest of his family. So, he continued to call out for a retreat, for which the now panicking Lannister infantry would now happily oblige him.

He would never get to see his family again.

For as they were about to escape from the tightening noose, his heart melted into despair, and his brain told him of resignation, as four thousand Stark and Imperial heavy cavalry smashed into their rear. Panic turned into despair for many of the men, as all hope was quenched, and they could only now pray for a speedy death, a feeling that was intensified by fireballs, seemingly coming from out of nowhere, raining down on them.

Addam lost all sense of hearing, as he now distantly stared off into space, his horse having gave way out from under him. He walked around numbly, having dropped his sword moments ago. He couldn't hear the dying screams of his men, as the legionaries cut them down at a rate of ten men per every second. He couldn't see the bodies wearing crimson and gold armor dropping like dead insects all around him, the once proud banners of his liege's house being trampled on and torn in the dirt. All he could do was replay the one singular thought going through his head, over and over and over until he began to reach the point of utter madness.

_We were winning!_

_We were winning._

_We were winning…_

He didn't even feel the short blade of an Imperial sword going through his throat, nor did he feel his body hit the ground in an undignified heap. All he could do now was feel a sense of peace washing over him, as his spirit left his body for a better place. The light faded from his eyes, and Ser Addam Marbrand, heir to Ashenmark, passed into the next life.

* * *

**Tywin**

* * *

Tywin watched, mouth agape, as his army was literally being destroyed in front of him. He was in complete and utter shock, for he had thought of the Empire as fairly easily though, although they could put up a fight. He had never imagined that a legion would perform a feat like this, unseen since the glorious days of the Emperor Tiberius Septimus Magnus. He was considering sending in his reserves, but knew now that he would need to retreat to his fallback position across the ford, to the legendary fortress of Harrenhal- a ruined but still formidable citadel which could hold off any number of attacks save for those borne from the air. His dwarf son- surprisingly, and disappointingly, still alive along with his sellsword and those barbarians- gave voice to his thoughts.

"Father, I hate to point out the obvious to you, but I think that it's time that we leave." Tyrion said, pointing to were the remainders of the infantry were being mopped up.

Tywin didn't say anything to his runt of a son, just tersely nodding and turning his horse around in the direction of the ford. As his reserves and the survivors from the flanking attacks followed him, he fumed silently, the look in his eyes incinerating anything-or anyone- caught in their gaze, if they could.

_Only four thousand men left. Out of an army of thirty thousand of the best troops I had. Mark my words, Legate. You, your legion, and your Emperor will pay dearly for all the blood you've spilt. This I swear on my grave. A Lannister always pays his debts._

Four thousand survivors rode off across the ford, the afternoon sun beginning to set into its evening phase, to a mighty fortress near the Gods Eye Lake, where they could rest, recover, and plan for their next move.

* * *

**Decius**

**Early Evening**

* * *

The Legate walked through the once green field, now covered in red blood and crimson bodies. Various flags were strewn about the place, belonging to different houses from the Westerlands. Healers from the support personnel, along with some of his legionaries who had volunteered to help, were performing the grim task of identifying and moving bodies for burial, or tending to those wounded on both sides. He stopped near one body, covered in plate armor with a grey surcoat that featured a burning bush on it. The dead man looked positively serene, as he had finally made peace with himself and accepted his death. Decius caught himself wondering whom this man was in life. Would they have meet as friends, in any other circumstance? What did he do before this? Did he have a family that he took care of when not at war? Was he a lord? A farmer? So many times did Decius do this that he was amazed that he hasn't went insane. He was snapped out his reverie by his old friend, who walked up to him, his armor beaten in several places and his left arm in a sling.

"Herman." Decius began, a smirk forming on his featured. "You look like hammered shit."

"Well, when you just survived, let alone won, a fight against one of the most feared people in this country coming out with a few scratches like I have, you'd feel like hammered shit, too, sir." Herman returned, a small amount of amusement and mirth hidden in his smile. Decius wanted to go back to the tent with him and crack open a bottle of brandy, but his mood immediately soured when he remembered exactly why he had walked out here in the first place.

"Did the Medicus tell you?" He asked. Herman sighed, and stroked his balding hair.

"Fifteen hundred of ours dead and wounded." Herman stated, the sadness creeping through his voice. Decius wouldn't cry, not in front of his men, but in private, he would weep over those he lost on the field. He always did since Anvil. Every time he lost soldiers, it felt like a part of him died along with him. He'd tell himself that he was used to this – the fact that he shouldn't get too attached to the lives of his men, but he'd then be reminded, often by Herman, that by being cold and distant and careless with the lives of his men, he would wind up like his longest rival, Publius Quinctilius Varus. Decius sighed a bit shakily. "How many of the enemy were killed." At that, Herman broke into a faint, but noticeable smile.

"Twenty-four thousand men of the Lannister host lie dead on this crimson field, sir. Another thousand are sitting wounded and captured." Decius did a double take before he fully absorbed it. Twenty-four thousand Lannister soldiers, now about to be buried in a mass grave, the ground ultimately consuming the flesh and bones. He at first looked shocked, then he started to laugh in joy. He nearly forgot all about his own dead and wounded; this was a moment of glory, not sadness! He had never expected once in his life to claim a victory such as this. He put a hand on his friend and subordinate's uninjured shoulder, and spoke in a now more happy tone.

"Brother, you know how to cheer me up. Tonight, after the funeral, tell the men to break open the casks! For we are celebrating this glorious victory, worthy of Cyrodiil herself."

Many thousands of years from that moment, his victory would still be taught in schools and universities all over the world, inspiring countless generations of tacticians and strategists, putting him up there with the great warriors such as Talos, Aegon the Conqueror, and Gaius Tullius Canus.

This victory would enter the annals of the Ninth Legion as a Heroic Victory.

* * *

**YEEEEESSSSSSSSSSS! Two and a half months of working on this chapter, suffering through constant cases of writer's block, and consistently having to put this off due to school and trying to find work and taxes, and it's finally done! I again apologize for putting you guys through such a long wait like this. Didn't quite make it to 10K words like I promised, but still, this is my longest chapter at nearly 6.5K words.**

**Some of the major blocks I was having was whether or not to base this off of one of two battles: Cannae or Pharsalus. I was heavily debating whether or not I should go with the Pharsalus model of the battle, but in the end, one of the reviewers pointed out to me that a Cannae model would be interesting, so I went with that.**

**Now, to answer some unanswered questions: No, I did NOT portray Tywin like a complete idiot who can't command worth shit. He is one of the great strategists in the country of Westeros, and he knows how to delegate command. The problem was that during the battle, he lacked his best commander; his brother, Kevan, who is more conservative and cautious than guys like Addam and Gregor are.**

**Also, in the Interest of space, I couldn't add as many viewpoints to the battle as I had wished, so the battle in the center was cut rather woefully short for my tastes.**

**Next chapter: King's Landing escapades!**


	17. Gods and Kings

Gods and Kings.

"_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I fear no evil, for you are with me."_

* * *

**Arya**

**24 Hearthfire, 204 4E/298 AL**

**King's Landing**

* * *

_Survive_

That single word had run through Arya's head so many times that she felt that she might be going insane. For the past two and a half weeks, she had scrapped out a meager existence on the streets of the capital, stealing bread and water just to get by, and killing pigeons if she failed in that. She was always alert, hiding from City Watch patrols the moment they got close. A life of thieves, beggars, and vagabonds. That is what this she-wolf of the North was living.

That is what she was doing right now, as she caught a poor pigeon, and snapped its neck, ending its life rather quickly. She looked around for her favorite baker, the one who would usually give her something to eat, if only to get her away from his stand. She quickly found him, just as the iron bells of the sept started to toll. She had absolutely no idea why they tolled, only that they did. She caught the baker just as he started to set up shop for some odd reason.

_Already? It's barely midday!_ She thought as she ran up to him, the bells still tolling in the background. "How much for any of these?" She asked desperately.

"Three coppers." He said irritably, as he put a shelf full of loafs in his house. She looked down at the pigeon, an idea that reeked of desperation formed in her head, and she held the dead bird up to him. "How 'bout a nice fat pigeon."

"Oh, piss off now. Go on." He waved away, as she was quickly becoming an annoyance to him.

"Do you have any leftovers from yesterday? Any burnt ones?" She tried to ask again, but was cut off by a now irritated baker.

"Piss. Off!" he raised his voice, jabbing a fat, stubby index finger in her direction before brushing past her and heading in a direction that apparently a lot of other people were heading in. She stopped on street urchin that she was somewhat familiar with.

"Hey, what's going on, where's everyone going?" She asked, amazed and confused at the spectacle.

"They're taking him to the Sept of Baelor!" he yelled excitedly.

"Who?" She asked, as her stomach was filled with an uneasiness, as if she was predicting the answer already. And it confirmed her worst fears when he spoke.

"The Hand of the King!" He yelled back, trying to keep up with his friends. She suddenly dropped the dead pigeon, and ran in the direction of the giant cathedral.

* * *

**Ned**

The sun blinded him as he was escorted for the first time back into the city proper by a couple of watchmen, as the loud plethora of noise- from the tolling of the bells of the sept, to the cries and jeers of the mob-threaten to overwhelm his hearing entirely. He looked entirely haggard, as he had spent the past two weeks in a black, musty cell, entirely devoid of light or sound. He looked around at the scene before him, and saw, at the foot of the statue of King Baelor the Blessed, for which the sept was named, a familiar face, frightened and angry.

Arya.

He wouldn't yell out to her, even as they locked eyes, for it would only draw the attention of Cersei and Joffrey to her. And even if he would, he could not, as the jeers of "Murderer!" "Traitor!" and "Betrayer!" drowned out all other noise at present. The guards pushed him roughly along the path they had cleared through the crowds, and about halfway to the wooden platform they had erected near the steps to the church, he saw another familiar face; that of Yoren's.

"Baelor." He spoke to him as they passed. He turned his head, and raised his voice to his old friend, so he could be heard again. "Baelor!" The guards then grabbed him, rather ungently, and shoved him along the path, half-pulling, half-pushing. He neared the steps to the platform, and began ascending, looking at the face of his eldest daughter, her tight, sad smile trying to assure him that he was doing the right thing by this confession. As he slowly ascended the steps, gauging the faces of those present on the riser, from smug Cersei to calm, traitorous Littlefinger, he reflected on his this deal- this bitter, utterly honorless, and frankly hard deal.

Falsely confess that you plotted to kill the children, or see your own die.

It was, after much consideration, not a hard choice.

He was now standing on the center of the platform, facing the crowd, his back turned before the sept, and, after he cleared his throat, began to speak.

"I am Eddard Stark. Lord of Winterfell, and Hand of the King." He stopped for a moment to catch himself, and remind himself of what he was doing, before continuing, as he looked at his daughter who nodded for him to continue. "I've come before you to confess my treason, in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my king, and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son, and seize the throne for myself." He stopped for a moment to hear the taunts and jeers of the crowd. A good sized rock, thrown from someone near the stand, hit him on the head, and he staggered backwards, nearly losing his own footing, as the strong hand of the Hound kept him steady. Sandor stood the disgraced Lord back upright, and was allowed to continue his false testimony.

"Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say." He now had to swallow his pride once more, as he quivered his lip before continuing with the sad charade. "Joffrey Baratheon, the First of his Name, is the one true heir to the Iron Throne. By the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

There, he said it. He took a moment to compose himself, as the jeers of the crowd became murmurs, as the High Septon held out his thick arms.

"As we sin, so do we suffer. This man has confessed his crimes in sight of gods and men. The Gods are just, but, as beloved Baelor taught us, they can also be merciful." The fat priest turned to the inbred king, who was smiling with a sort of smug malevolence. "What is to be done with this-traitor-your grace?" The jeers of the mob turned into requests, with shouts of either "The Wall!" or "Hang him!" or even "Throw 'em off the tower!"

The false king held his hand up to silence the unruly crowd, and when they quieted down, he spoke with an unusual clarity.

"My mother wishes for Lord Eddard to join the Night's Watch. Stripped of all lordships and titles, he would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my Lady Sansa, has begged mercy for her father." Then, Eddard saw Joffery do something that made him…despondent, for the lack of a better term at the moment.

He _paused._

And right there and then, Eddard knew-he just knew-that these were to be his last moments on Earth. The boy kings words only confirmed his fate.

"But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished!" Eddard locked eyes with the boy king one last time, and saw a sort of deranged, animalistic cruelty, dancing to the tune of madness. A sociopathic gleam he had only seen on one person before; the Mad King Aerys. And the next words out of his mouth sounded so full of malicious, sadistic, black hatred, that they sounded to just about everyone the words of a monster merely disguised as a human.

"Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"

Eddard could only sigh and shake his head in disbelief, as his daughters screams and pleas of mercy for him drown out even the crowd, which had turned it's jeering into a frenzied, bloodthirsty roar of approval, as he was forced to his knees to wait for the inevitable.

Time slowed down for him, as he scanned over the unorderly mob for Arya, looking at the statue one last time. He felt relief flood through him as he saw that his daughter had been taken by Yoren, his final request fulfilled.

_At least some one in this city has a shred of honor left in them_, Eddard thought with a bitter, ironic humor. _I'm sorry, Anslaf, my friend. I should have headed your warnings about all of this. I will see you in the afterlife_. And with what he was sure to be his final thought, he bowed his head, so Ser Ilyn could have a clean cut with his own greatsword, an irony that was not lost on anyone save the mob. He closed his eyes, and waited for the brief flash of pain that would be followed by eternal peace…

"**ZUN…HAAL VIIK!"**

A voice like thunder rang out across the city, shaking the platform underneath Eddard's knees. The voice sounded familiar-and yet, different, as if it was from some otherworldly source. Eddard opened his eyes, and saw the crowd had fallen deathly silent. Not a sound could be heard, save for the rustling of the flags behind him in the wind. He turned his head to see where Ser Ilyn had been standing before. The mute executioner was now on the ground, sitting, nursing his apparently badly burned hands. Eddard's greatsword lay a few feet away, with no visible signs of heat emanating from it. He then saw the crowd part ways, as a figure in a brown cloak stepped through the clearing. As soon as this figure reached the foot of the steps, he removed his cloak, and Eddard was awed and amazed at what he beheld.

Standing before him and the King's court, was his friend, his ally.

Anslaf Delmar. Thane of Whiterun. The mighty Blackwolf.

The younger man was dressed from head to toe in his signature black armor, made of a material that looked even better than steel. He had his black long sword drawn, and on his right arm, a similarly black shield, styled like the large round shields those in Central Essos use; a hoplon. On the Blackwolf's sword, Eddard could make out faint lettering. Imprinted on the blade looked to be Imperial words, making up a phrase: SI VIS PACEM PARA BELLUM.

The man ascended up the stairs, his expression grim, as he locked eyes with Lord Eddard. And for the first time in his life, Eddard truly felt in the presence of the gods, as he looked into those dark blue eyes and saw a power scarcely described by mortal men burning within. And as he ascended the steps, other cloaked figures ascended up with him, fifteen in all, with a familiar, furry shape tagging along right behind them. Anslaf came to stand right beside him, near to were Ser Ilyn had been standing not a few moments before, and helped him to his feet. He quickly cut his bonds, and then looked over the still stunned crowd, before he turned to the court, with Joffrey fuming, and back to the crowd. The Nordic man then began to laugh. Quietly at first, but then it became a loud, booming, hysterical laugh, one that sounded as if it was full of the ironies of life. Eddard had thought that the Blackwolf had finally lost his wits, until he calmed down some and spoke.

"You know something, folks. For just one moment-just…one…_moment_-I'd like to _not _save some one's sorry ass. I'd like for a time not to go around and save this planet from whatever evil is threatening it. I'd like some vacation time from stopping complete _madmen_ like your precious king-," He waved his sword over to where Joffrey and the others were standing "-from screwing up a perfectly good balance." He paused, shaking his head, as if he found life's little ironies bitterly amusing. "But no. It can't be ever simple, can it? I can't sit down, and enjoy my time as a husband to a loving wife, as a father to two wonderful children, because for some sick, fucking twisted reason, I got stuck being a demi-god!" He said, throwing up his arms for dramatic effect. "Ah, but that's not why I'm here; for you to hear me complain of my woes and sorrows. No, I'm just going to pick up our friend here, take him, his daughter, and his greatsword with us, and we can go on our merry way."

Eddard then saw Joffrey's face contort into absolute rage, as Ser Ilyn sulked away from the platform, still nursing his wounded hands.

"You can't! You're NOT in charge here! I AM THE KING! Hound, guards, slaughter these fools!" Joffrey yelled, his face beet red with anger, and bloodshot green eyes. But before the Hound could make a move, or even draw his sword, Anslaf opened his mouth, drew in a deep breath, and shouted in a language that emanated sheer, indescribable, raw power.

"**FUS…RO DAH!"**

The Hound was rag dolled by a powerful, blue energy that had issued forth from Anslaf's lips, into the crowd of peasants. Though not enough to kill Sandor Clegane, or even injure him, it did look to daze him, as several unfortunate peasants soften the blow of the fully armored man, breaking many of their bones in the process. The entire crowd, which had been fearfully calm a split second before, was now screaming in panic, running in each and every direction and trampling each other in a mad scramble to safety, figuring any place would be better than near- as they saw the Blackwolf-a demon in the flesh. City watchmen tried to contain the crowd, or at least direct them to orderly exits, albeit fruitlessly. Eddard grabbed his greatsword from the floor, and held it out in front of him, as he saw Anslaf's companions throw off their cloaks. He spotted Erik among them, his steel armor glinting as he brandished his claymore.

"Kill them! KILL THEM ALL! I COMMAND IT!" The boy king screamed, stomping his foot on the ground and waving wildly. Two of the Kingsguard near him, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros, rushed to meet the group head on, swords drawn, as a dozen or so Lannister men-at-arms clamored up the steps, intent on killing Eddard and Anslaf. Suddenly, an arrow was lodged into the fat neck of Ser Boros. The thug of a knight dropped his sword, and fell, desperately trying to dislodge the arrow and stop the bleeding, as he was choking on his own blood. Eddard looked up to one of the towers near the sept, and saw a shadow of a figure with a bow, firing on the Lannister men who were racing up the steps.

"Good old Cynric!" Anslaf muttered as he cut down a Lannister knight. "Shitty thief, but a great marksman!" Eddard could only nod, just as a Lannister retainer took a swing at him with an axe. He barely parried in time, and then sliced the man's head clean off his shoulders, the Valyrian steel blade making quick work of it.

_How bitterly ironic that I would have met the same fate if not for him_, Eddard thought humorlessly. He turned to Erik face off against Ser Meryn, and to his horror, his daughter Sansa was in the ruthless man's arm, a sword to her throat.

"Make a move, you ginger cunt." Meryn snarled. "And the pretty lady gets a nice red slit across her neck."

"The king would throw his own betrothed away like trash?" Erik said through clenched teeth. Eddard could scarcely believe his ears either. That boy was truly the Mad King reborn.

"The King can do as he likes." Meryn taunted. "But…if you want to keep her safe, drop your weapons and surrender. He told me to keep her alive." He said, turning a predatory gaze to Sansa. "Of course, he didn't say that I should keep her _unspoiled_." Before the disgusting snake of a knight could go any further, another shot from Cynric found itself lodged into his armpit. Meryn Trant screamed bloody murder, as the arrow had lodged itself deep, nearly coming out the other side. He involuntarily let go of Sansa, allowing her to run straight into Erik's arms. The evil little man was so busy trying to dislodge the arrow that he failed to noticed the Blackwolf calmly walk up to him.

"**YOL…TOR SHUUL!"**

A brilliant orange and yellow stream of fire erupted from Anslaf mouth, fully enveloping Ser Meryn and at least ten Lannister soldiers behind him. The flames seemed as hot as wildfire, as the metal of their armor began to melt with their flesh.

The screams of men burning to death are a horror one cannot even begin to describe. Death is rarely instant, as one can feel his flesh peeling off of him like wax, his hair sizzling up like fat on a fire, and his eyes literally melting in their sockets, as their own organs are charred beyond recognition. The smell itself is one of the most putrid things to assault the nose, near the point of sensory overload. Eddard, and others alongside him, had to turn away from the grim spectacle, as he was all too familiar with the scene of men being cooked alive inside their armor; Sansa ended up puking out the contents of her stomach. By the time the screaming had died down, and Ser Meryn and his compatriots nothing more than twisted, charred half-skeletons, Anslaf turned to Eddard and the others.

"We must hurry! To the tunnels!" He urged, as he began to run toward the nearest manhole, which was in the middle of the now cleared plaza.

"What about Cynric?" Etienne asked, motioning to were the archer was up in the tower. Ned saw Anslaf bite his lip and hang his head. He knew this look all too well, as he had it countless times before: the look of struggle as you waged one man's life against that of the mission. He looked back, and saw many more city watchmen approach the church from behind them. He heard Anslaf's answer.

"If we try to retrieve him, we WILL fail in our mission." He turned and saw him, a pained look on his face.

"We will attempt to retrieve him later. But right now, the safety of Lord Eddard and Lady Sansa are paramount. We make for Dragonstone." He flipped open the cover to the manhole. "Quickly, before a hundred blades send us to Oblivion, please!" Etienne looked conflicted, but in the end, they all made a mad dash to the manhole, as the City Watch closed in. One by one, they climbed the ladder, with Anslaf being the last man down, making sure to close the entrance just as they heard the stomping of a hundred pairs of boots. After he had descended the ladder, the Blackwolf turned to Syrenne, whom Eddard reminded himself was the oft silent woman.

"Did you memorize this place like you said? I don't particularly feel like winding up in the Red Keep with a thousand guardsmen waiting for us."

"Every nook and cranny." Was her terse reply. The Blackwolf nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

"Then you'll take point. Jordis, Valdimar, cover our rear." He commanded.

They were led through twisting tunnels of various sizes and purposes. These were the fabled tunnels of Maegor the Cruel, built in case he needed to retreat from the city in case of a losing siege, to secretly sally forth and surprise an enemy, or for a vast network of spies that many have oft used, such as Varys' intelligence network. They seemed to run forever through those tunnels, though in stark reality, it was only taking them about half an hour, as Syrenne had memorized this particular route in clear and precise detail. In what seemed like an eternity latter, they made it to another entrance, this one being a secret door doubling as a wall for one of the warehouses near the harbor. Syrenne pushed open the wall with a little difficulty, as the old entrance had not seen use in some time. Anslaf peeked his head outside, looking both ways and above to make sure it was clear, before signaling the rest of them onward. They carefully made their way out the warehouse, and into the harbor proper, brimming with the sights and sounds of docks on a busy day, the smell of salt and fish gracing their nostrils. Everyone resumed a casual, but alert, walk, as they intermixed with the crowd, careful not to be seen by the city guards. Soon, Anslaf pointed to what looked like a small, fast ship, outlined with a few scorpions on the bow and aft. The vessel looked almost entirely new, as if it had been launched from dry dock only yesterday. The name of this vessel, written across the front half of the port side, was "_Sword of the Seven_"

"We'll take that sloop." Anslaf said, and they made their way to where the _Sword_ was towed…

* * *

**Anslaf**

In all honesty, maybe throwing the weasel of a captain overboard after he refused to surrender the vessel- even after he had politely asked _and _bribed him with gold-wasn't such a good idea. Especially now since they've cast off, and alarm bells were ringing throughout the harbor. And to make matters worse, they now had at least two war galleys, the _Queen Cersei's Wrath_ and _Defender of the Faith,_ chasing after them. Currently, Cosnach was at the helm, while everyone else save Eddard, Sansa, and her wolf-who were below deck-were either manning the oars or manning a scorpion. They were trying to get away quick from the galleys, and the wind just wasn't cutting it, even at full sail.

"I thought this thing was supposed to be fast!" Anslaf yelled as a scorpion bolt sailed over his head, missing him by a couple feet. He returned fire, hitting a few men on the deck of the first galley.

"Just shut your fucking mouth and keep shooting!" Cosnach yelled back. "Another ship heading straight for us! Triple decker!" he yelled. Anslaf turned his head in the direction that everyone else was looking. Sure enough, another warship was headed right at them, this one a dromond, bearing three banks of oars on each side. The warship was completely covered in scorpions on the deck, and there were two onagers mounted fore and aft. Anslaf could feel his stomach drop for a moment, considering the fact that they were about to be cut off. But then, he looked at the large storm banner flying from the mast.

Instead of the combined sigil of House Baratheon of King's Landing, which was a lion standing equal with a stag, crimson and gold, this flag was more of an orangish-yellow, with a crowned stag's head surmounted on a fiery red heart.

This ship belonged to Stannis Baratheon, the one true king of Westeros.

A large, fiery projectile, launched from the fore onager on the ship, sailed through the air and landed amidships on the _Defender_, tearing a hole clean through the vessel, and lighting the ship on fire as it passed through. The _Defender_ started slow down, eventually coming to a stop, and started its own descent into the black waters of the bay, still aflame.

It was then that Anslaf mused to himself which fate was worse; having your flesh peel and melt off, or having your lungs filled with water? Both sounded particularly unappealing to him, right next to flaying, and he was glad when the _Wrath_ decided it didn't want to follow its sister ship to a watery grave, and turned back to port.

"Cosnach, sail toward that vessel." Anslaf commanded. As they got near the large warship, the word _Fury_ could be seen emblazoned along the starboard side.

"Halt! Who goes there?" A man on board the larger vessel boomed. Anslaf walked got off the scorpion and looked up at the man who just spoke to them. This man looked to be in his late forties, if not his early fifties, for his hair, once black, was now the texture of salt and pepper. The figure wore a piece of twine around his neck, with a small bag at the end of it.

"Friends of the one true king of Westeros, Stannis Baratheon!" Anslaf replied, hoping that the man would believe the truth in the words.

"And how do I know that you are friends to the King?" the man asked him, clearly doubtful.

"Because this man saved the life of my daughter and myself." A familiar voice spoke, as Anslaf turned and saw that Lord Eddard and Lady Sansa had come out from below deck after the fighting had died down. "I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North. Loyal to the true king, Stannis of the House Baratheon."

"Lord Eddard! We had heard of your capture only a week ago! His Grace had sent me to mount a rescue mission. It seems that I have only half succeeded." The man up top spoke, half-jokingly. "My name is Ser Davos of the House Seaworth, commander of King Stannis's vanguard fleet. We can escort you to Dragonstone, if you so desire. We will provide you food, clothes, shelter, anything we can provide." Davos offered.

Anslaf began thinking it over. On the one hand, there was no way to verify this man's-Davos's- claim, that he was a commander in Stannis Baratheon's navy. On the other hand, he did save them from the pursuing war galleys, and he hadn't yet detected any of the usual signs of treachery. He looked around the faces of his group, judging for reactions. He saw in Ned's face that he was still pained about having to leave Arya with Yoren, as he told him. He saw relief in Sansa's face, and most of the crew seemed to approve, or were at the very least indifferent to help. He decided he was just going to have to risk it.

"We would gladly accept your offer, Ser Davos. We have been living in the same clothes for the past two weeks, as you can see, and our bellies could certainly use the food. I also have need to speak with the King." Anslaf said. Davos nodded and motioned to his helmsman. "Then let's be off. It's a week long journey from here to Dragonstone."

After they had boarded the _Fury_, Ser Davos ordered some of his men to pour oil onto the _Sword_, and then they threw torches onto the ship, setting the wooden sloop alight. As Anslaf looked at the burning pyre of the ship, he began to muse to himself. The flames danced brilliantly in the evening fog, lighting up the area like a beacon for the lost and weary. Fire was a destroyer, and yet, also a purifying creator, giving life and taking it on the same token. It was the thing that warms the home at night, which spreads through cities and forests alike, destroying everything in its path, but also giving room for the forest to breathe, for a new city to rise out of the ashes of the old. The ship, which represented the façade of the false King's regime, started to slowly sink to the bottom of the bay, a well-earned resting place for the vessel of a mad ruler.

And overhead, as the stars began to twinkle in the early night sky, a comet, bright red and orange in color, began to make it's round over the planet-one that would be visible to anyone who stared up into the sky for a month…

* * *

**END ACT I**

* * *

**A/N: This is it for Act 1. Next Arc will be primarily covering the convergent World War, as conflict between the Dominion and the Empire kicks off with a bang, and the War of Four Kings heats up in Westeros. There will also be a secondary subplot that revolves around Anslaf's past, but that may not be resolved until the third act. Oh, and you'll probably end up seeing more of Robb, Jon, and Arya, too. For you Dany fans, I'm not really making any changes to her story until about Act 3 or 4, so you're probably going to have to sit tight.**

**Next chapter is going to be an interlude. Due to the fact that the previous chapter I posted was not well recieved, I have changed it into a intro to Arc II. Sorry if you liked the religious angle I was shooting for, but as it stands, the majority of readers felt that it was better left out of the story.  
**


	18. Interlude I

**ACT II**

**A CLASH OF KINGS**

**It is a dark time for the world. Although Anslaf Delmar, the Dragonborn hero of Skyrim, rescued Lord Eddard Stark and his daughter, Sansa, he could not prevent a massive civil war from breaking out in Westeros, by now being dubbed the War of the Four Kings.**

**Stannis Baratheon, having found out beforehand that all of Cersei's children were products of an incestuous affair between herself and her twin brother, Jaime, fled to Dragonstone a month before Eddard was named as Hand of the King. Now, he calls upon the lords and knights of Westeros to rebel against the false rule of Joffrey the Illborn, and be seated as King on the Iron Throne, as the law dictates that the kingdom should pass to the eldest brother should the king die. With the escape of Lord Eddard, he now has the might of both the North and the Riverlands behind him.**

**However, he is opposed on many fronts. Renly, the youngest of the Baratheon brothers, has fled to Highgarden, feeling that the throne is his for the taking. There, he has the full might of both the Stormlands and the Reach at his back; an army that numbers a staggering one hundred thousand men, easily able to crush any resistance that can be mounted against it. However, the King in Highgarden seems more interested in partying than actually mounting an offensive at the moment, giving his opponents valuable time to shore up defenses.**

**To the far west, Balon Greyjoy, sensing an opportunity for retribution, breaks off all communications with the main land and declares the Iron Isles a free and independent kingdom, re-crowning himself King of the Iron Isles. His Ironborn raiders now step up their piracy and raiding, gathering supplies for what looks like an all-out offensive on either the resource rich Reach or the Westerlands, as he knows that his son would likely be put to death by Stannis if he should attack the North.**

**In King's Landing, the Lannister's grip on power is already slipping. Two of their mighty hosts have been defeated in two separate battles in the Riverlands, one resulting in the capture of Jaime Lannister, the other obliterating a fourth of the Lannisters available manpower in the Westerlands. Though both Dorne and the Vale remain neutral in the conflict, the death of Ser Gregor Clegane at the hands of the Imperial Ninth Legion might be enough to convince the Dornish to join the war on Stannis's side. Surrounded and beset by their enemies on all sides, and cut off from the Westerlands by at least a hundred fifty miles of enemy territory, Joffrey and his mother, Cersei, risk a desperate gamble; either buy off a few mercenary companies, thereby accruing even more debt, or appeal to the Dominion for help; the only ones who have been so far able to go toe to toe with the Empire.**

**Unbeknownst to the Small Council, war has also broken out again in Tamriel, after thirty-three years of tenuous peace. The Empire, intent on capitalizing on the ongoing rebellion in Valenwood, has entered the fight on the side of the Rebels, liberating over half the province from Dominion control, while also launching an invasion of Elswyer. And as the Empire has a Legion now operating in Westeros, a Dominion field army coming to the aid of King's Landing runs the very real risk of turning the two separate conflicts into a massive world war, as the Free Cities of Essos weigh the risks and benefits of who to fund and support with their massive wealth and armies.**

**To the far north, beyond the Wall, the Others are gathering their forces for a truly massive attack. Led by their king, Noctis Rex, they are intent on avenging their losses during the first War of the Dawn, and for their leader, he is hell-bent on avenging his wife. If they spill over the Wall and into the realms of mortals, then the world will almost assuredly fall…**

**To the Far East, Daenerys Targaryen, Khalessi of the Great Grass Sea, has done something that no mortal has done in over three centuries; she has hatched three live dragons. Now given the epithet "Mother of Dragons" she travels to the great city of Qarth, intent on securing the means to reclaim her birthright; the Iron Throne of Westeros. As her dragons flap their wings for the first time, a red comet flies overhead…**


	19. The Wars to Come

The Wars to Come.

* * *

**King's Landing**

**1****Frostfall, 204 4E/ 298 AL**

**Tyrion**

* * *

Madness.

Complete and utter madness.

He could find no other words to describe the sheer insanity of the _leadership_ that his dear nephew was displaying.

It has all started with his father naming him Acting Hand of the King at Harrenhal, while he tried to salvage what remained of his command. The defeat at the Green Fork, couple with the news of Jaime's capture, had set the Lord of Casterly Rock into a unusually sullen mood- quite a feat for the normally stern and proud Tywin. It would be kind of hilarious, if not for the fact that he was also seething with rage, as Tyrion had noted. It was also at Harrenhal that they were notified of Joffrey's rather spectacular antics and Cersei's apparent lack of control over her son, most notably Joffrey attempting to execute Eddard Stark and their miserable failure at recapturing the Lord of Winterfell and his eldest daughter when an up-jumped Nord swooped in and saved them, apparently using what was described in the message as "Dragon magic". His father had scoffed at the words, calling it 'ridiculous rubbish'.

Initially, Tyrion was of a mind to agree with his father. He had a difficult time believing that someone could breathe flame, like one of the dragons of old. But there was a nagging doubt, gnawing at the back of his head. In the message, Cersei claimed that many of her men had been burned beyond recognition; at least a dozen, if it were to be believed. At first, Tyrion was want to dismiss it as one of his sweet sister's scare tactics, but the way she described the effects had Tyrion on edge.

According to her, the effects seemed eerily similar to wildfire, an alchemical compound that was said to replicate the devastating effects of dragonfire. The armor of the slain men had been fused into their charred remains, making the corpses look like twisted, fleshy scraps of metal. This, on top of the strange occurrences during the battle, had Tyrion now reluctantly opening up to the possibility that all the old stories that he had heard come from the mouths of Tamrielic sailors during his youth had some measure of truth in them.

Or, perhaps they were completely true, and his father had been wrong about the Tamrielians this whole time.

Either way, the whole magic tripe was not helping his current situation, which was getting Joffrey under control.

He first saw evidence of Joffrey's ineptitude when he had walked into the city. The normally lively town looked more akin to a graveyard, from what Tyrion could tell. Bodies rotted in the streets, while bone-thin figures, shambling here and to, looked for anything they could eat. Outside the gates, refugees from the Riverlands continued to stream into the city, worsening the city's already bleak food shortage.

And what was Joffrey doing while his people starved outside the Red Keep?

He was throwing a nameday celebration for himself.

_A fucking name day celebration_, Tyrion thought angrily. When he had barged in on the fool, he was laughing manically at killing some poor, fat knight by having him drown in wine, much to the apparent disgust of nearly everyone present. Already the smallfolk had taken to call him epithets like "The Illborn" and "The Mad King Reborn" and "Aerys the Third". And due to his attempted execution of Lord Stark and the bloodbath that followed, the Faith was now demanding compensation from the Crown, totaling five hundred thousand gold dragons, for desecrating the steps of the Great Sept with blood. Now, he found himself walking into the Small Council chambers, whistling _The Rains of Castamere_ all the way there. He smirked to himself when he saw everyone's faces as the turned to see him, ranging from Vary's mild surprise, to Pycelle's shock, to Cersei's silent rage.

"Don't get up." He commanded as he walked over to Cersei. "You look more ravishing than ever, sweet sister." He said as he planted a kiss on her cheek.

_And still as cold as a White Walker_

"Blue agrees with you." He mocked as he walked over to the Hand's seat. "Forgive the interruption, my lords. Carry on. We have a lot of work to do!"

"What are you _doing _here?" Cersei asked him through clenched teeth. Tyrion just smiled as he sat down on the seat.

"It's been a remarkable journey. I pissed off the edge of the Wall. I slept in a sky cell. I fought in the biggest battle in Westeros since the Field of Fire. So many adventures! So much to be thankful for." As he spoke, he shot a glare at Littlefinger, who looked impassive, to say the least.

"What are you doing _here_? This is the small council!" Cersei yelled, on the verge of gritting her teeth.

_So much beauty wasted on that vile cunt_.

"Yes, well, I believe that the Hand of the King is always welcome at small council meetings…" Tyrion began, right before his wonderful sister cut him off.

"_Father_, is Hand of the King." Cersei attempted to correct him, but he only smirked in amusement.

"Yes, but, in his absence…" He left of as he handed Tywin's letter to Varys, who unfurled the scroll and began to read from it.

"Your father has named Lord Tyrion to serve as Hand of the King in his stead, while he fights against-."

"OUT! ALL OF YOU, OUT! NOW!" Cersei screeched. As the small council members got up out of their seats and left the premises, Cersei stormed over to Tyrion, her face contorted with anger. "I would like to know how you tricked Father into this!" She commanded. Tyrion just chuckled a bit before replying.

"If I was capable of tricking father, I'd be Emperor of the World, by now. You brought this on yourself." He corrected.

"I done nothing." Cersei defiantly spoke. Tyrion just shook his head.

"Quite right. You did _nothing_, when your son called for Ned Stark's head. Now we have five of the kingdoms risen up against us, and two refusing to come to our aid."

"I tried to stop it!" Cersei snapped at him.

"Did you?" Tyrion challenged. "Well, you failed. That bit of theatre will haunt our family for a generation. Maybe more than that, since you let the man and his daughter escape when some fool in black armor swept by and took them to Stannis."

"Stannis is a rigid fool!" She tried to deflect, but Tyrion was ready for that.

"A fool who is _winning!_" Tyrion again corrected. "Our enemies have won every battle they have fought thus far. Do you understand we are _losing_ the war?" Tyrion asked her honestly. She may have thought herself smart and cunning, but Tyrion knew the only reason that she had been able to outstep Ned Stark in the first place was because the man almost dogmatically held on to his code of honor.

"What do _you_ know about warfare?" Cersei asked, attempting to deflect the question yet again.

"Nothing." Tyrion admitted honestly. "But I do know people. And I know that our enemies hate each other almost as much as they hate us."

An awkward, painful silence followed. A few brief seconds of staring each other down, before Cersei burst the pregnant silence.

"Joffrey is King." Cersei informed him bluntly.

"Joffrey is King." Tyrion affirmed.

"You are here to advise him." Cersei commanded further.

"I am only here to advise him." Tyrion reassured, though in reality he planned to take control of the situation and make sure that everything in the capital stabilized. "And if the King listens to what I say, the King may get his Uncle Jaime back." He said, directing the comment at Cersei, hoping to gauge a reaction.

"How?" She asked, with her head turned to the table. Tyrion could tell, though, that she had been unable to conceal the hope in her voice.

_Got you._

"You love your children." He simply stated. "It's your one redeeming quality. Well, that and your cheekbones. The Starks love their children as well. And we have one of them."

"No, we don't." Cersei confessed. Tyrion's jaw almost hit the table then. He knew his sister to be almost as incompetent as her bastard son, but this?

"None?" Tyrion repeated, not sure if he heard her right.

"Arya, the little animal. She disappeared before we could catch her." Cersei admitted. Tyrion now felt his blood boiling.

"What, in a puff of smoke?" He asked incredulously. He then snorted and shook his head. "We had three Starks to trade! One almost got his head lopped off by Joffrey. And all three of them escaped!" He glared at his sister. "You do realize that without those hostages, Jaime is probably as good as dead?" he asked, furious at this blunder of epic proportions. Cersei shot an angry look at him.

"I know full well what may happen to our brother, dwarf!" she spat at him. "I'm not a fool! And I didn't say that we don't have any hostages left, so keep your mouth shut!"

"I'll bite then! Who?" Tyrion asked. _How many blunders can you possibly make, sweet sister?_

"One of the Blackwolf's compatriots. An archer that we caught in one of the Sept's towers. We have him in dungeons right now."

Tyrion couldn't believe it. "And do you know this Anslaf? From what I heard, he's not the particular kind of man to place people above his mission. And his mission seems to be putting Stannis on the throne!" He yelled. "I hope for Jaime's sake, you know what you are doing!" He got down from his seat. "Father would be furious, if he were here. Must be odd to be the disappointing child." He turned to walk out of the chambers, but his sister stopped him.

"And pray tell, little brother, how does our illustrious father plan to stop our enemies now? He lost most of his army at the Green Fork, and Jaime's force retreated back to the Westerlands!"

"I don't know, dear sister. Maybe we can hire a few mercenary companies out of Essos, although I doubt we can afford the expense right now. What do you have in mind that would be marginally better?"

"We sent a diplomat to Tamriel." She simply stated. Now Tyrion was confused.

"Where? Morrowind? Argonia? If it's the Empire, than good luck beseeching those toga-wearers to sue for peace." Tyrion questioned.

"Alinor." Cersei said.

Tyrion felt his stomach drop at the mention of that. He honestly couldn't speak for the better part of a second, and when he did find his voice, it barely came out as a horse, rage filled whisper.

"What have you done?"

Cersei looked at him indignantly. "We need allies, Tyrion. Allies who can actually stand against the Empire, who can crush Stannis with ease…!"

"And when they do, they'll turn their swords on us. Are you aware of what happened to the last allies the Aldmeri Dominion had? As soon as they had beaten their collective foes, the Dominion turned on them and practically enslaved them. You are essentially inviting Westeros to become a province of the Thalmor, with everyone in this country being ground beneath the boots of their Justiciars!" Tyrion fumed. Did Cersei not know how nascent empires operated? They always look to expand their territory, one way or another, until every inch of ground in the world has their banner waving over it. And the Aldmeri were more brutal than most empires when it came to taking land or keeping it. For example, he had read that almost every time a revolt had risen up in Valenwood, the Thalmor would slaughter the inhabitants, raze their city to the ground, and sow the earth with salt so nothing would grow there again. And they were supposed to be _allies_, the Bosmeri and the Altmeri. Tyrion knew that the Thalmor did much worse to their enemies, if the reports from the Great War were to be believed. Even the Ghiscari found the Thalmor repulsive, and that was truly saying something about their moral character, or lack thereof. He shook his head. "I stand corrected. Father wouldn't be furious; he would be _livid_." With that, Tyrion turned and walked out the door, not bothering to listen to Cersei's protests. All he wanted to do now was get his armor off and take a nice, hot bath, before beginning to hopefully sort Cersei's mess out.

He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. It was going to be a long stay here in King's Landing.

* * *

**Erik**

**Later that night…**

* * *

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Sansa asked him, pointing up to the blazing red comet in the night sky. Erik looked up at the comet, the same one that had been burning for the past week now. A brilliant color of crimson, gracefully making its way across the starry night sky. He nodded. "It honestly reminds me of your hair" He spoke. "The color of strawberries." Sansa blushed when he admitted this. He gave a huge grin in return. This girl couldn't even try, and yet every time they were near, he felt his heart skip beats. Ever since he laid eyes on her, he just knew it would be her. Truth be told, he had a few girlfriends before, but all of them were typical for Nord women; brash; rude; or arrogant, or some combination of all three. Sansa though…Sansa was sweet, humble, and kind; the exact type of women that had more sense than to go looking needlessly for a fight. She had an inherently trusting nature, though Erik suspected that she would be more cautious with dealing with those in power from now on, due to Joffrey's stream of lies and abuses committed on her. What she had revealed to him below deck infuriated him, and made him hate that cunt of a king more. Apparently, Joffrey had his Kingsguard regularly beat and humiliate her for his own selfish amusement, as she showed him the scars and bruises on her back, received from the flat side of Ser Meryn's sword. Erik had sworn right then and there that he would be the one to bring Joffrey to justice for his crimes. Not his master, not Lord Eddard, and not King Stannis. The bastard had hurt the one he loves, and for that, he would die. "What do you think it means?" he asked her. Sansa appeared thoughtful for a moment, and then answered him. "I would imagine that it meant the beginning of a great war, terrible and bloody in its nature."

"If it were for the war, I reckon there would have been a comet for nearly every bloody war started by mortals." Erik stated doubtfully. "It may mean the return of the White Walkers, but I imagine that would be more of a bluish color rather than crimson."

"Stars don't fall for men, lad."

Erik turned and saw Ansalf leaning on a barrel. A little annoyed that he was interrupted by his master while he was spending some time with Sansa, he sighed. "Then what _do_ they fall for." He saw his master stand straight up and walk over to the railing on the port side, looking up at the comet.

"Back when I was your age, my master told me that he had heard that there was a similarly red comet that appeared over Tamriel the day I was born. It wasn't until last year when I spoke to Paarthurnax that I truly learned what it meant, though."

"What did the man tell you?" Sansa asked. Erik saw his master chuckle somewhat at her lack of knowledge of what Paarthurnax was.

"Well, my lady, Paarthurnax told me that the only time a comet that shape and color appears over the skies, it is a sign from Akatosh, the God of Time and the Father of Dragons. He explained to me that it meant that a new dragon had come into the mortal world. As I said before, the last time it happened was twenty-five years ago, on the Seventh of Morningstar; the day I was born."

Erik saw Sansa immediately pale. "That means you're a….?" He knew that she was shocked beyond words, as she couldn't even find her voice to finish her sentence.

"In a sense, yes." Anslaf answered her. "I have the soul and blood of a dragon. In all regards, it's a mixed blessing." He said.

Erik scoffed. "I imagine that being impervious to fire and being able to shout your opponents to oblivion would be a curse." He joked sarcastically. He immediately regretted his choice of words, however, when he saw Anslaf give him a glare that could melt ice.

"It's not the resistance to fire or the Thu'um that I consider a curse, Erik. It's that little voice inside of me; that nagging, insufferable voice that resides in the deepest corners of my mind, constantly whispering sweet nothings into my ear. Always telling me that if I could just impose my will on everyone around me, then I would truly be in control; Lord of the Earth, if you will. But I know if I did that, I'd most likely end up like Alduin or Harkon; mad with power and destroying everything I had ever loved or held dear in an effort to become a supreme ruler."

Erik was honestly humbled by this confession. He knew that Anslaf never sought positions of power and influence, but he had always assumed that it was always due to his other responsibilities; as a father, as a mentor, and as a warrior. He never would have once imagined that it was because that his mentor was honestly and deathly afraid of what would happen if he ever found himself in a position of power.

"So that's why you've been refusing all of the Emperor's requests to make you his heir." Erik stated simply to him.

"The Emperor doesn't have any children?" Sansa asked him before Anslaf responded. "How old is he?"

"Thirty-three name-days old." Anslaf replied. "And no, he has never sired any children with anybody, nor is he married."

"Why not?" Sansa asked yet again, this time intertwining her fingers with Erik's, which made him stutter a bit. His master seemed to chuckle to himself a little bit, before deciding to answer.

"Antonius thinks that his dynasty is one that should deserve to die out and pass into legend. The legacy, or rather I should say infamy, of his father left a sour taste in most citizens' mouths. Allowing a foreign power to run roughshod over them tends to do that, no matter what your intentions were at the time." Anslaf spat, obviously some bad memories coming up for him. "Tell me, Lady Sansa. What good is a government that fails to protect its people, and instead bows to the whims of madmen and tyrants across a sea?"

"I would think that government would need to be replaced." Erik's love said after thinking for a moment. "By one that would be honorable and just toward the people it ruled."

Anslaf nodded, apparently satisfied with Sansa's answer. "And one that would safeguard a person's natural rights." He added, then smiled at her and Erik. "Ah, but I forget. You two are supposed to be having a private moment." He winked at Erik, who immediately felt his cheeks start to redden. "I'll let you get to it then." With that, he gave a little bow, and walked toward the aft section of the ship to talk with Ser Davos. Erik turned back to Sansa, now both of their fingers intertwined with each other's. She blushed at him, and then they started to inch their faces closer to each other. Erik, deciding to be brave, moved in a little quicker, and his lips made contact with hers. A feeling that Erik couldn't quite describe flowed through him, making him feel like he was soaring like a dragon. Her lips tasted of lemon cakes, their sweetness making him want her even more. The kiss seemed to last forever, an eternity that neither of them wanted to end. Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime, they slowly broke off the kiss, and looked into each other's eyes. Her Tully blue orbs shown with delight and longing, reflected in his dark green eyes.

"That was…incredible." Sansa breathed.

"It was beyond that." Erik corrected, cupping her face with his right hand. Her skin was soft and pale, like a silk blanket made from the farthest reaches of Essos. "It was…divine." He proclaimed, trying to find the right words. She quickly shut him up by taking the advantage this time and pressing her lips against his this time…

* * *

**Anslaf**

**The next morning, near Dragonstone.**

* * *

To call the castle of Dragonstone bleak and depressing would be to call the Wall cold. The fortress- for that is what it was, pure and simple- was completely minimalist in appearance, some would say laconic, even. The only things that seemed to set this island citadel apart, asides from the dormant volcano, were the five, large dragon statues mounting the corners of the keep.

_I'd think I'd honestly go insane if I had to live here like I heard Stannis does._ Ansalf thought as the warship pulled into the island's fairly large port. When the boarding ramp was lowered, Anslaf saw a group of soldiers escorting several different people coming down the walkway, and stop some twenty paces away. Anslaf was joined by his group walking down the ramp, along with Eddard and his daughter, her wolf, and Ser Davos and his men. As they got closer, Anslaf could now make out several faces in the crowd. One was obviously a woman, wearing a red dress that accentuated the natural curves of her body and highlighted her cleavage. Her blatant sexuality was not what had Ansalf intrigued, however. It was the raw power emanating from her.

A fellow mage, it seemed.

Next to her stood a man who looked like a slightly younger version of Robert, with a greying black beard and balding hair. He had a cold, stoic mask for a face, not daring to let any emotional weakness show through, and Anslaf couldn't help but be reminded of Isran when he first met him. He already figured that this was going to be a wonderful time, if his difficulties working with that stubborn mule of a man were any past indication. Besides him stood a frail looking woman that he assumed to be his wife, and a young girl with a large, grey deformity on the side of her face that he figured to be his daughter. His group stopped before them, and Eddard stepped forward and knelt.

"King Stannis, your Grace."

The balding man, Stannis, beckoned Eddard to rise.

"Lord Eddard, we heard about your trouble in King's Landing. It's good to see you and your daughter alive and well. With the North's support, we can finally take the fight to the Lannisters, and hopefully bring a quick resolution to this war." The one true king turned his steely gaze to Anslaf. "And you are you?"

"Anslaf Delmar, of Skyrim, your grace. I rescued Lord Eddard from the headsman's block in the capital, and overall I'm here on a very important mission." He stated. "The Empire has sent a legion to support you, if you already haven't heard."

"Yes, I've heard they gave Tywin quite the thrashing at the Green Fork over a week ago." Stannis stated dryly, not sounding overly impressed with the Legion's performance at the battle. Ansalf was honestly surprised by this. "They did, eh? How badly did they defeat Tywin's forces?"

"Surrounded and destroyed over nine-tenths of his forces, if the stories are to be believed." Stannis simply said. "But enough of that. I must thank you for rescuing Lord Eddard. And more to the point, what is this mission you're on?"

It was then Anslaf made his face match the stern mask that Stannis seemed to wear. "Winter is coming, and the cold winds are rising. The Others have awakened from their cold slumber, and seek revenge against mankind for their defeat in the last war, over eight thousand years ago. If Westeros does not unite under one king to face this grave threat, then the world will almost assuredly fall. And for this to happen, I need to find the one they call 'Azor Ahai' in prophesy." Anslaf stated with clear, stark clarity, trying to drive his point across.

"Then you need look no further, Dragonborn." The woman in red spoke up. "Stannis the Lord of Light's chosen. He is the figure of prophecy who will defeat the great evil." She proclaimed proudly. Anslaf let his mouth drop open ever so slightly, ignoring for the time being that this woman knew who he was without him telling her. He looked at her, then at Stannis, then at Eddard, who had his brow raised barely noticeably, then back at the red woman.

Then he laughed.

"Is something funny?" Stannis asked tersely. Anslaf could see that the king was gritting his teeth when he said that.

"Oh, nothing, your grace. Well, not if you consider that the fact that I don't even remotely think that you're Azor Ahai reborn in the flesh. No offense." He offered.

It was the woman in the red dress you answered for the king. "The fire is hardly wrong, my lord. Why would R'hllor show me such visions if they were false?" She said calmly.

"Visions can often be misinterpreted." Anslaf countered. "Plenty of people have died due to getting a prophecy wrong….I'm sorry, what was your name?"

"Melisandre, my lord." She clarified, giving a slight bow. "And R'hllor, the lord of light, has given me a vision of your coming in the flames. The one who would light the way for Azor Ahai." She said, nodding to Stannis.

"Hm." Anslaf scoffed, clearly not convinced. "I'll test him on the matter later, but that is neither here nor now. What we need to discuss is the ongoing war." He said, throwing a glance in Ned's direction. "With the North and the Riverlands behind you, along with my legion, you have a force of nearly sixty thousand men at your back, a hundred thousand if you count the reserves."

Stannis looked like he had something to say, but he just nodded instead. "We'll discuss more on this matter later. For now, I'd advise you all to get some rest and clean up. We meet for lunch in four hours." With that, he turned and headed toward the castle. As Anslaf and his group walked toward the castle, he noticed Melisandre watching him with interest. They stared at each other for what seemed to Anslaf like an eternity, ignoring the chatter between Sansa and Shireen, as the daughter of Stannis introduced herself, or the private conversations between the other men in the group. And as he broke off the staring contest, his mind started to form uncomfortable questions about what this thing that she warshipped really was, if the terrible stories about the religion had any kernel of truth to them.

_And if she is a Daedra worshipper, Akatosh help me…_

* * *

_Anslaf found himself walking through a desert, red-tinted mountains to the right of him. He felt the sun beating down on him in his armor, but thanks to his draconic blood, he did not particularly feel hot. He spotted a tower in the distance, without any supporting structures in the distance. As he got closer, he noticed that the tower was as red as the soil, the color of blood and wine. The door was of a simple wooden construction, but the interesting thing was the men guarding the said door. Two men in the armor of the Kingsguard stood vigil over the entrance. And unlike Joffrey's guards, who gave off a thuggish, arrogant, and undisciplined vibe to them, these two seemed to be the epitome of the 'quiet professional', standing guard silently, rigidly, and with a discipline that seemed almost laconic in nature. He immediately noticed that these figures did not notice him. Figuring that this was just a dream, he opened the door, quietly as to not possibly disturb these stone-like figures, and stepped inside. He made his way carefully up the spiraling staircase. The stairs did not seem as long as he had thought they were initially, for soon he found himself at another door. He opened it up quietly, and saw a remarkable and saddening sight. Before him was another Kingsguard knight-this one helmetless-standing over a bed with a mid-wife. The knight looked on with grave concern as the maid tended to the woman on the bed._

_The woman, who seemed to be in childbirth, looked much like an older version of Arya. If this woman was any indication, Arya would grow up to be just as beautiful as her mother and older sister. Anslaf now found himself intently listening in on the conversation which now seemed to be playing out._

"_Push, my lady! The baby is almost here!" The maid encouraged. Anslaf saw the look of pain and frustration on the woman's face; a face that reminded him of his own wife when she was giving birth to her twins._

"_Fucking Rhaegar! I will drag his ass back from the afterlife and kill him again for doing this to me!" The woman yelled through her pain. Now Anslaf was a little confused. Rhaegar? _

"_I'm sure that if my prince were still alive, he'd gladly let you kick him all over Westeros." The Dornish Kingsguard japed, though the woman was having none of it._

"_Bullshit, Arthur!" She then gave out another sharp scream, as the midwife kept encouraging her to push more. Just then, one of the Kingsguard burst through the door, sweating like a bull in heat. _

"_Arthur! We have Stark banners riding south towards us!" he urged, concern in his eyes._

"_How many, Ser Oswell?" the knight, Arthur, asked._

"_No more than seven, by the looks of it. One of them looks to be Eddard Stark!" Ser Oswell responded. Now Anslaf was really confused. What would Eddard be doing here? Rescuing his daughter from Lannister clutches, perhaps? Arthur nodded grimly, and fetched his helmet from off the table near the bed, and began to follow Oswell down the stairs. The woman's yell stopped him for a moment._

"_Arthur! If you lay a hand on my brother, I will never forgive you! Do you hear me! I will personally see you to the Seven Hells myself!"_

_Brother?_

_Ser Arthur looked back at the woman, a sad look in his brown eyes, and then put his helmet on and exited the room. The woman softly cried, just as she gave one last, teary push._

_As Anslaf woke up, the last thing he heard was the cries of a newborn boy…_

* * *

**Well, there are several intrigues coming up. Some of which you readers may already be familiar with, including a personal favorite theory of mine.**

**Sorry if the Erik/Sansa romance seems rushed. I'm admittedly not strong in writing romance in any shape or form. I just hope that I do the pairing justice in the eyes of this community.**

**As you may have noted, I am bringing in something from Ansalf's past. Who and what…well, you'll just have to find out.**

**Till next time…**


	20. The Bright Lady

The Bright Lady

* * *

**Anslaf**

**Dragonstone**

**5****th**** Frostfall, 204 4E/298 AL**

* * *

Every night.

Every night, it was the same damned dream, over and over and over again. The same dream about the red tower and the woman who looked like Arya. It didn't feel like a nightmare to Anslaf, but it had gotten so repetitive that he noticed himself sleeping less and less, truth be told. And the primary person with whom he wanted to discuss this with, Eddard, had left two days prior for Robb's camp to take command of the Northern army, while Erik, Sansa, Valdimar, and Lady had departed by ship to White Harbor yesterday. The other person whom might help, Melisandre, was too busy still fawning over Stannis as the prince who was promised, despite his extensive questioning and testing of the one true king, clearly finding that he was not the chosen one. So here he was now, pouring over the dusty old tomes and scrolls that had once belonged to Maester Cressen, who had died trying to poison Melisandre days earlier. Rubbing his eyes after reading another vague passage concerning the prophecy, he closed the book he was looking over, and looked at the ring he wore on his right ring finger-the one given to him during his wedding. It was a simple, silver ring; no ornaments or jewels adorned it. It beard a simple inscription on the inside: _To my love, Anslaf. Know that you are always in my heart, and that I am always in yours._ He kissed his ring, and soon he found the tears rolling down his face. He was over two thousand miles away from home. Serana and their children-gods, how old would the twins be when he got back, if he ever got back? He would miss their first words, their first steps. Everything that a father was supposed to do with his children at their age, and here he was, in a remote corner of the world, trying to help save the earth again, so that they could have a future. At times he wondered why Akatosh chose him to be Dragonborn. A man who once was a broken, angry mercenary, who could give less than a damn about the world, if only to shut it away due to the pain and grief he had felt over his father's death and his brother's betrayal. What did the gods ever see in him that they decided to bestow upon him the blood and soul of a dragon?

"I thought I might find you here. Why do you look so troubled?" said a rough, yet pleasant voice that he immediately knew whom it belonged to. Anslaf turned and saw Davos standing by the doorway to the study. Anslaf sighed and turned his chair to face him. "Just thinking about my wife and my children. And an end to this damnable conflict so that I can truly find Azor Ahai, train him, and take care of the threat of the White Walkers once and for all, so I can return home, to love my wife and be a father to my children. And before you press me; no, Stannis is definitely not the chosen one. I do not know how Melisandre convinced him that he was, for he exhibits none of the signs that he is."

To his credit, Seaworth did not press any argument, only regarding Anslaf with an inquisitive look. A moment of silence passed between them, until Davos again burst the pregnant pause. "I'd like to ask about your family."

"Why do you want to know about them?" he asked. He never liked to share details about his private life, especially with people he met only days prior.

"Just curious." He answered, no hint of malice or even annoyance evident in his voice, and Anslaf could detect no emotions that spoke otherwise, either. So he decided to take a chance.

"My manor is on a hill above Lake Illinata, about fifteen miles east from Falkreath. It's a very simple place. The grass is as green as the flag of Highgarden. We have a farm, where we grow all kinds of food. Potatoes, lettuce, watermelons, you name it. The soil is black, Davos, black like my wife's hair. We have cattle, chickens, pigs, and goats we use for our meat and dairy. And the kitchen…ah, you have never smelled something as wonderful as the things that come from my kitchen! It smells of wild herbs in the day, and orchids in the evening. My wife…her hair is as black as night, and yet her skin is as almost as white as the snow. Her eyes are the most dazzling shade of green you had ever seen. A tough, spirited woman…loyal, courageous, and truthful. My children…oh, my wonderful babes, Davos. A man like me does not deserve such wonders in his life, and yet I am the more blessed for them." He said, smiling fondly at the thought of his family and home.

"I take it you weren't always a good man?" he asked him.

"You could say that, yes. I was a mercenary- a hired killer for about three of the darkest years in my life. I did not give a damn about who I killed or who was paying me, so long as I had money in my pocket to afford a decent set of armor, weapons, a horse, and drink to drown myself in my pity. Completely ruthless and amoral, I would tell myself, but all that was just to bury the grief and anger I felt at a brother's treachery." He chuckled. "I guess in many ways, I'm still a killer, only now my killing has been given direction and purpose." He leaned in closer to Davos. "It's not this country, or the world, or any religion that I fight for, ser. It's my family. They are my number one concern. I have come here to fight this evil not for Westeros's sake, but for my children's, so that they can grow up and experience life, in all its sorrows and joys." He leaned back in his chair. "But I also suppose that I fight for the rights of other families as well, come to think of it…." He thought for a moment before regarding Davos. "What about your family?"

"Well, for starters, for most of my life, and the lives of my seven sons, we lived in Flea Bottom-the slums of King's Landing. Every day, we had to scrap by for a living, living off the scraps the high lords saw fit to throw down at the small folk in the city. Things got so bad for me and my sons that I had to turn to smuggling to feed them. I became pretty good at sailing and evading, delivering contraband from supplier to buyer. It was during Robert's Rebellion seventeen years ago that I had met Stannis, and our lives changed for the better. He rewarded me with knighthood for saving his men during the siege at Storm's End, and he has made my sons squires."

"And yet he still cut off your fingers for smuggling." Anslaf pointed out, nodding to Davos' left hand, where all five fingers had their first joints to their fingertips removed. Davos simply shrugged. "I consider it an honest and just accounting, and a fair trade, all things considering." Davos now leaned in closer to Anslaf. He looked around and over his shoulder, as to make sure no one was hearing in on him. When he looked at him, he had a worried look to his visage. "King Stannis is an honorable and just man, who rightly believes that no one should be above the law, but I fear for him. I'm afraid that red woman has too much influence over him. She's clouded his judgment, I fear, and I'm seeing him become a different man before my very own eyes."

"How so?" Anslaf asked, then it hit him. "The ceremony on the beach…"

"A king needs to defend the rights of his people to worship whomever they wish." Davos continued. "I fear that if Melisandre was to sit at Stannis' right hand, she would ignite a rebellion against Baratheon rule, which will be far bloodier than anything this realm has seen." Anslaf could only nod grimly. He knew, of course, that Melisandre had claimed to be on his side in the fight against the true enemy, which was Molag Bal, or the Great Other, as she had named him, but as a rule, he did not trust anybody, especially people as powerful as her. Not until they had earned it, at least. "I understand, Ser Davos." He then found his thoughts drifting back to the dream.

"Ser, I know you don't trust the priestess. And I know the feeling, believe me. But she does have power. And I feel that she may hold the key to the answers I seek, or at least point me in the right direction." He stressed. "And if it means finding the chosen one, then it's a risk I have to take."

Davos just sort of stared at him for a moment, and then slowly nodded his head, as if he was coming to terms with the situation. He put his hand on Anslaf's shoulder, and got up.

"I know lad, I know. I'm just an afraid old man, worried for his King and his family." He turned and headed for the door. Before he exited the study, Davos turned his head to Anslaf. "Do you think we stand a chance against the Enemy?" he asked, trepidation creeping into his voice.

"Only if we stand united, Ser Davos Seaworth." Anslaf answered frankly. "Only if we stand united."

* * *

Later that evening, Anslaf found himself walking to Melisandre's quarters. The dream was burning in his mind, now. He was absolutely certain it was a message from the gods. Why else would he having the same dream for about four nights in a row now? Soon, he was at the Red Woman's door. He hesitated at first, then knocked three times.

"Enter" came the muffled reply. He took that as his cue and open the door. Inside, Melisandre was sitting in front of the fire place, meditating with her back turned to Anslaf.

"Welcome, Dragonborn." She greeted without turning around. "You come with a question." The way she put it made it sound more like a statement more than a question to Anslaf, almost as if she already knew what he was about to tell her. He put up mental barriers, just to be safe, and walked forward.

"I do, my lady." He stated. "I have been…restless, as of late." He said, taking a seat in one of the chairs next to the bed. The red priestess got up and sat in the chair across from Anslaf's. When she indicated for him to continue speaking, he obliged.

"Four nights ago, I began to receive a strange dream. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then it kept on repeating, every time I went to sleep, night after night. I know this is a vision of some sort, but I can't exactly place my finger on what." He began.

"What were the contents of this premonition?" Melisandre asked, now leaning forward, with both hands clasped in front of her. Anslaf could tell she was clearly interested now. He shifted a little in his seat before answering.

"In my dream, I am walking through a desert; the soil as red as blood and fire. In the distance, I see a lone tower, which is as red as the dirt around it. I walk up to the tower, and I see two of the Kingsguard, stoic and grim. I ascend up the tower to the top room, and step inside. There, I see another one of the Kingsguard and a midwife, standing over what looked to me initially as one of Lord Eddard Stark's daughters, who was in the middle of childbirth, and calling out for a man named 'Rhaegar'. I had thought her to be an older version of Arya, first, but then she called Eddard her brother, which confused me. My dream ends with Lord Eddard and his companions riding to rescue his sister, and a cry of a newborn boy when I awaken." He finished, making sure to leave no important detail unattended to. Melisandre stared at him intently for a few, long, antagonizing moments, seeming to take in every detail spoken and unspoken, until coming to a conclusion.

"I am sorry, Dragonborn. I cannot help you with this matter, for I, myself, do not understand what the dream represents. It very well could be the key you need to unlock this mystery of yours, but I am unsure."

Anslaf sighed and nodded, and got up from his chair. "I am sorry for wasting your time, my lady." He apologized. He started to turn, before he heard Melisandre again.

"I might not be able to, Dragonborn, but R'hllor _can_." She said, rising up to meet his full height. Anslaf turned around again to face her, his dark blue eyes blazing into her unnatural red ones.

"How are you so certain that your god can help me, when you cannot?" Anslaf asked her, clearly on edge now. He had to be cautious if what she worshiped was indeed Anslaf was afraid it was.

"Because I have faith, my lord." She assuaged. "And besides, what other choice do you possibly have. Lord Eddard? A hundred miles away, carrying out our King's command. Your books, which offer nothing but vague clues?" she pointedly asked. "No my lord. The Lord of Light has chosen you for a purpose. And that purpose is to find and train his Warrior, though I do not claim to understand your reasoning as to why you think Stannis is not the Lord's Chosen." Anslaf waved his hand in frustration. "You know my reasoning, which shall remain unchanged, although I do see your point." He said, walking over and taking a seat on a rug in front of the fireplace. "So how does this work? Do I just stare at the fire and hope I see something." He half-japed, not really believing that this would work at all. He heard her pleasant voice behind him. "You must believe in our lord, if you want him to come to you. And you must give _all_ of yourself to him." He looked at the fire, confused at what she meant, and turned his head around….

…to see Melisandre completely disrobed.

He immediately shot to his feet, feeling the blood rush to his face as his eyes went wide.

"NO!" He sputtered. "Not only no, but fuck no! I didn't come to you looking for a whore to dishonor myself with!" He yelled, seething with fury.

"You do not find me beautiful, my lord?" Melisandre asked seductively, walking close to him in a sauntering manner.

He couldn't lie to himself, or to her. She was a very stunning woman; her breasts were firm and supple. She had very little fat on her, and the way her hips and waist met was very seductive. And her sheath, which was somewhat covered by a patch of red hair, was very, very inviting.

"I cannot deny that you are lovely, my lady." He confessed, still brimming with anger. "But I will not lay with you. You should have come to me four years earlier. I would have fucked your brains out, back then. But now, there is only one woman for me, and that is my wife." He declared.

"A creature born of darkness?" Melisandre scoffed. "Surely you would have had more-."

She never got to finish her sentence, as Anslaf became blinded by his fury and delivered a full, sharp slap to her face, staggering her. As she meet his eyes, she must have saw the full fury of his draconic side in them, for hers widened in fear.

"Do…not…_ever_…speak of my wife in that manner. She was a vampire, but it was her that pulled me out of the darkness. It was her that molded me into a better man, and taught me that there was some good in this world worth fighting for. And I pulled her out of the curse of vampirism, so you can bugger off with that 'creature of darkness' shite. If you sully her honor one more time, I will personally tie you to an anchor and throw you into the Narrow Sea. Let's see how much sway your fire god has underwater." He coldy warned, lacing the power of his Voice ever so slightly into his words to give them extra effect.

The fire priestess said nothing, and nodded in understanding, while she hastily picked her robe of the floor and redressed. Anslaf turned back to the fire, his mind still reeling.

"Get out." He commanded. "I have work to do." He sat back down, and when he heard Melisandre walk away and shut the door behind her, he closed his eyes, and let out a deep, unsteady breath. He made sure to calm himself through some deep breathing exercises that Yamato had taught him. He then opened his eyes, and stared right into the flames.

At first, nothing interesting happened. The flames just danced and twirled, consuming the firewood that acted as its fuel. He was about ready to give up, when he noticed the flames become brighter, and brighter. Soon, he found himself shielding his face from their intensity, which had gone from orange to pure, dazzling white in about a few seconds time. The bright light overwhelmed him, and he soon found himself out of Stannis's cold, dank fortress and instead sitting in a green, somewhat hilly field, with a clear blue river next to him and a sunny sky overhead.

"Hello, Dragonborn." He heard a familiar, otherworldly voice sound off behind him. "You've been busy as of late, my old friend."

_Fuck me, why does it always have to be a Daedra?_

He grimaced to himself slightly before adopting a cool, calm façade and turned to face the source of the voice. The figure before him looked like a female Altmer, clothed in resplendent white, and carrying a very familiar looking sword with her-Dawnbreaker.

He sighed before answering. "Hello…Meridia."

* * *

**A/N: Okay, I have to make some things clear before posting further. Namely a certain episode that aired over a week ago now, and everyone's reaction to it. I won't go into detail about this scene for those who haven't watched it yet, but let's just say people are angry about it, and rather justifiably, too.**

**However, many people are upset about it because of that specific character, while they ignore all the other horrible things that have happened in the show. That, in my opinion, is entirely disingenuous, and really amounts to nothing more than faux, Tumblrina outrage.**

**My issue is that the character in question just had four seasons of character build up come crashing down, and is now where they were in Season 2-broken, scared, and a plaything for a repulsive psychopath. The show has changed so much from the books that it can only be considered its own canon now, and not very good canon at that. (Littlefinger's plot making absolutely no sense in the show comes to mind.**

**Other than that, I am changing the rating for this story to M, based on this chapter and a chapter I have planned further down the road. I might also be posting less, due to the fact that I just got a job with a construction company and I'm going to be on the road a lot.**

**Till next time….**


	21. The Promised Prince

The Promised Prince

* * *

**Arya**

**6****th**** Frostfall, 204 4E/ 298 AL**

**Somewhere near Harrenhal, Riverlands.**

* * *

"Joffrey. Cersei. Illyn Payne. The Hound. Polliver. Amory Lorch. The Tickler. Meryn Trant. Ralf the Sweetling. Dunsen. Chiswyck…."

She had repeated the list, over and over and over again. The list she had made of the people she wished dead, for hurting her, her family, and her friends. A prayer to Death; praying that he would bring justice and vengeance down on her hapless foes.

"Keep moving, pig fuckers! I want to get to Lord Tywin as soon as possible, and you sorry lot are moving slower than old people fuck!" Ser Amory yelled, as Podrick whipped Gendry again, causing Arya to clench her teeth in rage.

_If only that fucker hadn't stole my sword from me. I would kill the entire damned lot of them, I would._

She kept the thought to herself, though. Didn't need to bring unnecessary trouble on herself or her friends. She kept her eyes straight ahead, flanked on both sides by Lannister cavalrymen, whom were ever vigilant and watchful for the first side of trouble from the prisoners. In the distance, she could make out the looming spires of Harrenhal- the ruined fortress that was serving as a temporary base of operations for Lord Tywin Lannister. It was rumored that the fortress was cursed by Harren the Black, before he was roasted alive by Aegon's dragons. Legend held that whomever tried to hold the fortress would be subject to an untimely and cruel death.

For Tywin's sake, she hoped that curse rang true.

As the column moved slowly along, she heard, above the clopping of hooves, the rhythmic march of boots, and men shouting orders or picking on her friends, the singing of birds. At first she thought nothing of it, but then she started to listen more closely.

The birds would chirp at intervals; every five minutes or so. And she heard different birds too. Every five minutes, it was a mockingbird. Every ten, it was a swallow. And every time they passed a downed tree, it seemed like a robin would chirp three times. The hairs stood on the back of her neck, as she got an uneasy feeling that someone or something was following the column. Apparently, her captors were starting to get that feeling as well.

"Amory, there's something out there in the woods, I'm telling you!" Polliver whispered loudly to his comrade. Amory just seemed to ignore it, for the most part. "Bloody hells, Polly. If you're going to start jumping at every noise and sound coming out of the woods, you might as well just turn around and head back to King's Landing, now. Besides, we're just a day from Harrenhal as it is." Polliver scowled at his friend and turned around, making sure to hit Arya in the back of the head when he caught her looking at them.

"What are you looking at, peasant scum? Keep fucking moving!"

Arya shot him a death glare as soon as he had run off, then turned her head back to the main road. Suddenly, it seemed as if the birds started to go wild. First a robin chirped four times, and was responded by a sparrow warbling eight times.

And then, a low rumbling started.

The column grounded to a halt. Lannister soldiers dismounted and started to cordon the prisoners, outwardly looking out at the forest on both sides of the road, shields and weapons raised. The archers, about twenty of them, took up positions behind the dismounted cavalrymen. All the while, the low rumbling continued.

"Keep watching!" Amory yelled. "If it's those Imperial bastards, then fight we will fight with all of our might and rage. I'm fucking itching for revenge!"

Suddenly, a large tree collapsed in the front, blocking off the path to Harrenhal. Another tree fell to the rear of the column, effectively boxing them in. And then…

…the arrows came at them from all directions.

Arya's first instinct was to dive to the ground, to avoid the lethal projectiles that were felling men left and right. An archer landed on his back right in front of her, gurgling blood from an arrow that had entered his throat and came out the back. She recognized him as Dunsen, the bastard whom had captured them and stole Gendry's helmet. She could not help but smirk at his convulsing body, watching him twitch as the life left him slowly from hemorrhaging. A few minutes later, most of the archers and crossbowmen were dead, along with a few of the dismounted cavalry.

She then heard a war horn sound off, as the low rumbling became a thunder of heavy footfalls. She saw, from her low position on the ground, hundreds of men in armor she had never even seen before ran at the Lannister men-at-arms, their large shields raised and short swords drawn. Unlike the Wildlings she heard about, however, these men kept in formation even when running and yelling war cries; a disciplined lot, it seemed. These soldiers crashed into the thin Lannister lines on both sides of the road, sending the men of the Westerlands reeling back from the shock of the charge. It then seemed to devolve into a brutal slaughter, as the foreign soldiers cut and slashed and stabbed at the Lannister men at arms, who soon found themselves individually surrounded and cut off from each other. Arya crawled as low as she could, trying to avoid the swords and the spears and the javelins. Men cried and screamed and fell all around her; most in Lannister garb, though a couple were the foreign soldiers. She then crawled next to one of the injured Lannister men. To her shock and surprise, it was Polliver. He looked in pain, as he had a large javelin protruding through his leg. She then spotted her sword on his belt, still sharp and unbroken. She jumped up and unsheathed the sword, and then stepped over him. He opened his eyes, and they widened in fear at the sight of her, for he must have seen her own eyes burn with hatred and disgust. She wasted no time. She would her no pleas of mercy from this man, no cries of cowardice, begging for his pitiful excuse for a life. She stabbed Needle into his face and throat, again and again and again, a savage war cry emitting from her throat as she brought the blade down on the hapless Lannister thug. After what seemed like an eternity, she finally quit stabbing the man, whose face had been turned into a bloody mush of bone, brain, flesh, and skin. She breathed raggedly, staring at her good work, before remembering were she was. She wiped her blade on his sleeve, then took the scabbard from his belt, sheathed Needle, and attached the blade to her own belt. She looked up to see a bunch of foreign soldiers staring at her. One of them- a tall, muscular fellow- walked over to her. He looked down at the body of Polliver, gave it a kick, and then looked at her.

"First one you killed, little one?" He asked, sounding somewhere between curiosity and amusement. She shook her head. "I killed a stable boy escaping King's Landing, and several of the Lannister men who attacked us on the road." The soldier just raised his eyebrow, and gave an amused sounding "Huh." He then stooped down to take a ring off of Polliver's right hand. He eyed the ring, a smile spreading on his lips. "Sabine will love this thing. Going to take it back to her, you know." He said to Arya, who just raised her eyebrows in confusion. Another soldier stepped forward, this one in tightly woven chainmail-decorated with metal disks with symbols carved on them-and wearing a helmet that looked much like the other helmets that the soldiers were wearing, with the exception of a horizontally mounted horsehair crest that was mounted on the top of his helm.

"Brutus, stop bothering the girl." He said dryly, though with a hint of amusement coming through his voice. She wanted to protest that she was not a girl, but she then figured that the secret was going to be revealed anyway. The other soldier, Brutus, just nodded and gave a sharp salute, though it was obvious it was sarcastic. "Sorry, sir. Just wanted to make conversation with the lass is all." With that, Brutus walked back to where the other soldiers were mulling about. The officer turned back to Arya. "Apologizes, young one. Legionary Manius Brutus can be a bit overcurious at the best of times, though it isn't the worst of his traits by far. My name is Marcus Cethegus, commanding centurion of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion, under Legate Decius Maximus." He introduced himself, extending a stiff, formal hand to her. Arya took the hand, unsure of this man, Marcus. They shook hands, and Arya cleared her throat. "My name is Arya." She gave out, purposefully leaving her last name out. She wasn't entirely sure if she could trust Marcus yet. "What are you doing here, in Westeros, might I ask?"

"We are here in support of Anslaf Delmar, the Dragonborn, in a mission of grave importance. That mission currently requires us to strike out against Tywin and bring him to heel. We already destroyed most of his army at the Green Fork. Now we are trying to whittle down what remains of his forces, in an effort to make that fortress in the distance a bit more vunerable."

"That ugly looking monstrosity, if you haven't noticed!" Brutus yelled from where he was. Marcus shot him a dirty look that said 'shut up' before turning back to Arya.

"You know Anslaf?" She exclaimed excitedly. Marcus shot her a confused look at first. "No…not personally. I've saw his face a few times before when we were coming here, however. How do you know him?" Arya stopped for a moment, unsure of what to say. How did she know if that she could trust this man with her identity? She cursed herself for being so stupid.

"Because she is Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell." Gendry said, walking up next to her. Although she was relieved to see that he and Hot Pie had survived, she was now equally furious that he had exposed her.

"Shut up!" She yelled at him, glaring at him angrily. He just flashed her a cheeky grin, before Marcus got her attention again.

"You're Arya Stark?" He asked, a lot more interested in her. "Your father passed through our camp barely a day ago with an escort of Stannis' men. We told him we did not know of your whereabouts." Arya perked up at that. She had not heard news of her father since the chaos at the Sept of Baelor. "My father's still alive? What about my sister? Is the Blackwolf and his friends alright, too?" She fired off, asking Marcus a thousand questions a minute. Marcus held his hand up. "Slow down, young lady. I can only listen to so much at a time. But to answer all your questions in a word; yes. Your family and friends are safe for the moment, last I heard. We need to get you back to camp, however. From there, we can send you off to Winterfell." He offered. Arya allowed herself to smile. She had not seen Winterfell in half a year. She would get to see Bran and Rickon and Mother again, along with her wolf.

"I would…appreciate it if you did. But before you do can I ask you something?" she asked. When Marcus nodded, she continued. "Why did you rescue us in the first place? From what you told me, you weren't even aware that we were here."

To answer her, Marcus pointed to where a few legionaries were standing. In the middle of them, there was an unarmored and restrained Amory Lorch, wrapped up in chains and snarling at the Imperials. When he got mouthy, calling the Imperials 'stinking boy fuckers', one of the soldiers punched him in the solar plexus, causing him to double over. When he bent over, trying to catch his breath, the same legionary then kneed him in the face, the armored greave on his leg breaking Amory's nose, causing Brutus and the rest of the legionaries to laugh.

"Enough!" Marcus yelled at them. "We need him alive and relatively undamaged. The Legate wants him as a gift for the Martells down south, and I don't feel like getting berated by either him or the Prefect today. So you lot will stop tormenting him or I will have all of you flogged!" The legionaries quickly stopped their laughing, and immediately helped Lorch onto his feet. One of the legionaries quickly reset the bastard's nose, causing Lorch to grunt in pain. He turned back to Arya, who was trying not to giggle at the whole spectacle. She abruptly ceased when she saw him staring at her.

"And if you are quite done laughing, my lady, we need to get moving. We've lingered too long chatting already." He yelled to his troops. "First Century! We are moving out!" The men immediately fell into formation, while Marcus placed Arya, Gendry, and Hot Pie near him at the front of the column. With a blow of a whistle, the First Century of the First Cohort of the Ninth Legion moved out, going back the way they came through the forest, to their camp on the other side of the Ruby Ford.

* * *

**Ned**

**Mid-afternoon**

**Stark military camp, eastern Riverlands, near Rivverun.**

* * *

The journey had taken longer than Eddard would have necessarily liked. The convoy had decided to stop at the inn at the crossroads, something that did not sit well with him due to the close proximity with Harrenhal. Fortunately, however, the Imperial legionaries were in full control of the Ruby Ford, and were actively protecting it against incursions by whatever remained about. They had then boarded into rowboats and sailed up the Red Fork, the journey taking a few more days until they had reached Riverrun, the triangular castle jutting out like a fist into the Red Fork. From there, they had taken directions from Edmure, his good-brother, to Robb's military camp, just a dozen miles west of the castle-seat of the Tullys. Ned had thanked him, then he and his escort had ridden horses to where Robb was.

_How the gods like to play their little tricks_, Ned thought half-humoredly, half-bitterly. _I leave Robb a green boy, and now I see him as a war hero and battle commander, while I had to be rescued._ He wondered if his own father, Rickard, had felt the same watching him, Brandon, Benjen, and Lyanna grow up. His heart still panged every time he thought of his dead family, especially Lyanna and the promise he had made to her on her deathbed.

He pushed such thoughts aside, however, as he found himself near the entrance to Robb's command tent. He took a deep breath, and walked in. He saw Robb with his back turned to him, talking to the Lords of the North. He recognized many faces; Greatjon Umber, Galbert Glover, Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark, Wendel Manderly, and Maege Mormont among them. He was also surprised to see his wife with the council, as well. It was her that looked up, a tearful smile immediately reaching her eyes, and called out "Ned!"

Everyone either looked up or turned around, people's expressions running the gauntlet from happiness to shock. Both Cat and Robb walked over to him and hugged him, tears in their eyes.

"Gods, Ned we were so worried about you and the girls." His wife said, whispering into his hair through half-sobs.

"We owe Anlsaf a debt we can never repay." Robb confirmed, now grasping his father's hand. Ned smiled at them both, tears of his own forming in his eyes. "It's good to see both of you again. I honestly thought I wouldn't have made it out alive if it hadn't been for the Dragonborn." When both Robb and Cat raised eyebrows at Anslaf's title, Ned waved it off. "Another time, I'll tell you, but not now."

"Good to have ya back, Ned!" Lord Umber boomed. "We were worried that Joff had cut your head off and threw it into the Blackwater!"

"Glad to be back, Lord Umber." Ned gave back. He gauged the reactions from the rest of his lords. Most of them had nothing but good things and words of welcome to say, except for one.

"Lord Stark." Lord Bolton began in his flat, emotionless voice. "We were most concerned for your safety. House Bolton is pleased to see our liege lord return to command his army, and we look forward to you leading us to victory, just as you did in the Rebellion."

Eddard immediately regarded Roose with suspicion. The history between the Boltons and Starks was often tumultuous and bloody, as the Red Kings and Winter Kings had fought over control of the North for thousands of years before the Starks eventually won out in the end, and the Boltons had tried to rebel in the past against the Kings in the North. And if he had learned anything from his experience in King's Landing, it was that you could not expect others to play by the same rules you did. He was going to have to keep a particularly careful eye on the Lord of the Dreadfort.

"And I intend to take command, Lord Bolton." He said, walking over to the map. When he saw Robb look somewhat crestfallen at his usurpation of command, Eddard relented somewhat. "But I intend for Robb to command at my side. He will learn the finer points of warfare and strategy from me, and act as my eyes and ears as commander of the cavalry." Robb's look on his face looked to Eddard as a mixture of shock and pride. "He has proven himself in battle against the might of the Kingslayer, and I can think of no one more deserving of the honor." He finished, smiling at his son. Robb slightly bowed before his father, unable to conceal the grin on his face. "I accept this great honor, father, and I will not disappoint you."

Eddard nodded his approval, before turning his head back to the map. "What's the current situation?" He asked.

"We've destroyed much of the Lannister army around Riverrun, killing and capturing around twenty thousand of their number. The remaining ten thousand have retreated back to the Golden Tooth." Lord Glover said, taking a lion map marker and placing on the dot that said 'Golden Tooth', in the mountain pass that linked the Riverlands to the Westerlands.

"Who's commanding this force?" Ned asked, chewing over this information.

"Initially, it was Ser Forley Prester." Lord Umber replied. "But we've received word that Ser Stafford Lannister has taken command of the force and is now gathering new levies from around the Westerlands at Oxcross. Apparently Lord Tywin wants his brother to sit on his ass in Casterly Rock while everyone else steals the glory." The Greatjon japed. Roose shook his head. "Lord Tywin is no fool, Lord Umber. Ser Kevin is his best commander, and that man excels when it comes to fighting on the defensive. It would make perfect sense for him to put his brother in command of both their seat of power at Casterly Rock and their primary port city of Lannisport."

"But Ser Stafford is, by every account, a weak commander." Medger Cerwyn pointed out. "Why would Kevan or Tywin give the command of a new large force to such a man as him?"

"Because Stafford is an excellent organizer of men." Tytos Blackwood offered. "It's highly possible the old man intends for his son to command on the field while he runs the logistical side of the army."

"Possible." Ned agreed, murmuring. He stroked his chin, looking at the map of Westeros, particularly at the mountain range that made up the border between the Westerlands and the Riverlands. "Robb, have our outriders scout out any routes and hitherto unknown passes into those mountains. I don't want to have to take the Golden Tooth in a protracted siege battle, and I highly doubt we have the men to assault that fortress outright." His son nodded at his command. "It will be done, father."

"In the meantime, I am going to send my wife back to Winterfell, along with an escort of soldiers and Ser Rodrick. I trust that you are capable of this, old friend?" He asked Rodrick Cassel. The older man bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord." He said affirming. Ned nodded to his wife, who just smiled at him, apparently grateful that she was about to go home to the rest of her children.

"Then this council is adjourned. I release you all to your men. Except for you, Robb." He said. He needed to have a few words with his son. As the lords and his wife exited the tent, Ned bade Robb to stand with him. A few moments of uncomfortable silence passed between them, before Ned decided to speak.

"I did not see Theon with you or any of the lords today, despite being told that he was with you by some of King Stannis' men." He stated, trying to keep his tone calm. Robb fidgeted a little-a bit unbecoming of the future Warden of the North- and sighed. What his eldest son said next would both shock and infuriate him.

"I sent Theon back to his father, to Pyke. I am hoping that he can negotiate an alliance with the Iron Isles, so that we can have enough ships to take Lannisport or King's Landing."

Ned looked at his son, his mouth now hanging slightly and his eyes going wide. When he found his voice, it came out as a whisper. "Do you realize what you've done, my son?"

Robb looked at him confused. "Theon is Lord Balon's son, and more importantly, he is my friend, my brother-,"

"Theon was a _hostage_, Robb." Ned corrected, starting to raise his voice. "He knew this! He knew that he'd never fit in with the rest of you children." He ignored the look his son gave him at being called a child. "He missed his home on the Iron Islands, and you just handed him back to his father, a man who holds a grudge against the North, and our family in particular. Balon isn't going to ally with us, Robb; he is going to seek revenge against us!" He nearly yelled, causing his son to jump a little. "We need every lord who owns a keep on the Western coast in here, now. We also need to send word to Winterfell, and tell them to keep a garrison of five hundred men inside the castle at all times." Robb didn't move for a second, a hurt look on his face, before moving out of the tent to carry out his father's command. Ned regretted his choice of words, but Robb needed to know what the truth of Theon was. True, the Greyjoy boy may have seen Robb as a surrogate brother, but Ned had always seen the jealousy in Theon's eyes when Robb and Jon traded japes and laughed with each other, the hurt in the boy's eyes when he saw him and Cat happy and together. And the boy obviously took pride in his heritage as an Ironborn, something Ned had hoped to cull from him in the years as his ward. Ned sat down on a chair next to a side table, and put his face to his palms. It seemed as if he had just come out of the frying pan, and thrown straight into the fire. A nagging thought then entered his head; a question that had been bothering him as of late. He got up out of his chair, and exited the command tent. He strode straight to the makeshift wooden cells near the center of the camp, the ones with a few important prisoners in them.

Including Jaime Lannister himself, the cause of all this mess, in Ned's mind.

He looked at the guard who was acting as the jailman. "Open it." He commanded. The guard nodded, fumbling through his keys for a second before finding the right one and opening the lock. The door swung open for Ned, and he stepped through.

Jaime Lannister looked a lot different than the last time he had seen him. Before at King's Landing, he had looked clean and shaven. Now, he looked like the lowest of beggars, with a filthy beard, dirty face, and shit-stained clothing to top it all off.

"Well, well, someone managed not to get his neck snipped at the chopping block." Jamie droned, obviously trying to test Eddard's nerves. Obviously, a few weeks of captivity had not done anything to humble this lion's pride. "Word is around camp that you escaped with the aid of a black demon that could breathe fire and push people away with his voice. That wouldn't happen to be our mutual Nordic friend, now would it?" He mocked. Ned stared at Jaime coldly for a few seconds before deigning him with a response. "It is true that the Blackwolf was responsible for my rescue, yes."

"Good for you, then!" Jaime quipped, sarcasm laced into his voice.

"You tried to kill my son." Ned stated, his eyes boring into Jaime with blatant hatred. "And now that my daughters and I are safe, what is there to stop me from executing you right here and now for your crimes?" he asked.

"Are you so sure of that, Lord Eddard? Are you so sure that your family is safe from the wrath of my father, especially if you decide to take my head?" Jaime responded. "Let's say that you do decide to put my head on a pike. You realize what my father would do?"

"He'd hunt every one of us down and destroy my House, root and stem, or so he'll say and try." Ned answered. He was well aware of the brutal reputation of Tywin Lannister, stemming from the days of the Reyne Rebellion. He had seen the Old Lion's handiwork in King's Landing himself, when he had ordered the sack of the city and the slaughter of most of the Royal Family.

_Promise me, Ned._

Ned shook the words of his sister out of his head, as Jaime nodded to him. "Which means that you can't hurt me. Does it pain you, Ned, to know that for all your honor- all your dignity- that you have to do the practical thing and not bring yourself to remove my head?" Jaime bragged, his smirk threatening to drive Eddard up a wall. To his credit, however, Ned did not react the way Jaime apparently wanted him to react.

"I am sending your cousin down to King's Landing to present our terms for peace. Your sister will either accept the terms, or we will litter the Westerlands with Lannister dead." Ned threatened, put as much ice into his voice as he possibly could. Jaime just scoffed at him. "If you think that my father would seek peace with either you or Stannis, then you don't know him very well."

"No, but he's starting to know the Starks. And winter is coming." Ned retorted. He turned around to leave, but stopped to trade in one last barb. "And when we defeat your father and your son, I will see you either in the black or on the block myself, depending on what my King commands."

"Then you might as well wait for a long time, Eddard Stark." He heard Jaime spit as he walked out of the cell. Ned focused himself on the task at hand, walking back to the command tent, where all the lords he needed to see and Robb where waiting for him.

_This is going to be a long, bloody war,_ Ned thought warily. _And I'm not even sure I will live through it. And if I do, what will happen to my soul?_

* * *

**Anslaf**

**The Colored Rooms**

* * *

"So, you're R'hllor, huh?" Anslaf asked Meridia in a sardonic tone. To say that he was a bit unhappy about being dragged into a plane of Oblivion would an understatement.

"As far as the people of the East know me." Meridia simply replied. "We gods have many different names across the world, but in the end, it is all the same to us. What matters is the mortals here our voices, and carry out our wills."

"And yet mortals misconstrue or misinterpret the will of the gods." Anslaf retorted. He thought of numerous times when prophecies or portents were misinterpreted or confused, usually with drastic and deadly consequences for those involved. "Not to mention that you Daedra love to lie and manipulate us mortals in order to achieve your goals." He accused.

"If the end goal is just and good, then do the actions used to get there really matter in the long run?" Meridia juxtaposed. Anslaf grimaced. She did have something of a point, however convoluted it might seem to his mortal mind. But on the other hand, there were times that the particular philosophy she espoused just ended up creating worse situations. He had also seen this before.

"Only in some circumstances, if they are dire enough." Anslaf answered. "But you Daedra love to treat it as a game- as an amusement; content to mess with your servants and laugh about it over a glass of wine." He remarked bitterly. He had seen the effects of Daedric meddling in mortal affairs, and it was never a good affair. Even those Daedra such as Meridia, who were supposedly on the side of good, were not immune to toying with mortals for their own gains or amusement. "But seeing as how you are opposed to Molag Bal, I have little choice in the matter but to seek your help."

Meridia smiled. "It is a sign of wisdom to recognize when you only have one choice, Dragonborn. Fear not, I will aid you, for I do not wish to see Nirn suffer under the tyranny of Molag Bal and his minions." She spread her hands. "Now, for your dream."

Anslaf blinked, initially surprised that Meridia would know about that, before realizing that she must have been the one sending the dreams.

"Yes, my lady. As I suppose you already know, I have been having a recurring vision regarding the prophecy. It was a dream about a woman in a red tower, giving birth to a baby boy. At first, I had thought this woman to be Arya Stark, the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, but as the dream was ending, she specifically mentioned Eddard as her brother. Just as the dream ends, she gives one last push, and the boy is born." He ended. Meridia smiled, indicating that she knew of what he spoke.

"The event you describe we put into motion many, many years ago, as Azura and I had entered a pact with the Aedra, one of mutual understanding." She began. "Over fifty years ago, I had appeared before the Westerosi King Aegon the Fifth, also known as the Reformer, disguised as a wood witch. As the realms of Mundus and Oblivion are separate, thanks to Martin Septim, I was in a much weakened state. However, the matter was of dire importance, as I could sense our shared rival, Molag, growing in power and influence in the far northern reaches of Westeros and Atmora. There, I told the king and his family that his from the line of his grandson and granddaughter, Aerys and Rhallea, would be born Azor Ahai. The King, the mad fool that he had become due to the turmoil that he had caused with his reforms, laughed in my face, but his son, Jaehaerys, was much more interested in what I had to say, and commanded his children be wed to each other.

After Aegon the Fifth died in an explosion at Summerhall, just hours after Prince Rhaegar's birth, Jaehaerys took the Throne. However, as I foresaw, his reign was short, and died a few years after his ascension. I assume that Lord Eddard told you the tale of his son's, Aery's, eventual descent into madness, so I shall skip over that part of the tale. I will go forward twenty years, around the year 281 AL, by Westerosi reckoning. The son of Aerys, Rhaegar, was already married to Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, and had two children by her; Aegon and Rhaenys. However, I knew that neither of them were Azor, despite Rhaegar's belief that Aegon was. So, right before the Great Tourney of Harrenhal, I came before him in a vison. I told him that the chosen prince would be born of the blood of fire and the blood of ice."

"Targaryen and Stark." Anslaf mused.

Meridia nodded. "That is correct, Dragonborn. At the tourney, the lords and ladies of Westeros gathered. It was the biggest sporting event in the history of the country; no other before or since could have topped that moment. For ten days, the tournament lasted. Such legends were forged then, such as the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and the prowess of many established. By the end of the joust, Rhaegar had emerged champion, as I had foreseen. As everyone expected, he was to give the Crown of Love and Beauty to his wife, Elia. But then, he saw her in the stands."

"Lord Eddard's sister."

"Yes. The third child of Rickard and Lyarra Stark, Lyanna. A wild beauty, untamed and dangerous as the sigil her house bore. She was always highly critical of the way that society treated women as little more than valued stock, and protested dearly when she was betrothed to Robert Baratheon, though the giant of a man loved her dearly. It was her who was the Knight of the Laughing Tree, and as such had incurred the wrath of Aerys, whom by now had earned his epithet of Mad King. At the end of the tourney, when Rhaegar had won and everyone expected him to give the Crown to Elia, he rode past his wife and children, and dropped the crown into Lyanna's lap; a crown of blue winter roses. It was then, I saw, that all smiles faded, and the turmoil and bloodshed that followed was my own fault."

"Eddard told me once that Rhaegar had kidnapped Lyanna after the tourney, with the help of the Kingsguard." Anslaf stated.

Meridia shook her head sadly, or as sadly as it came for a Daedric Prince. "The truth is more complicated than any one person will tell you. The Martells will claim that the wolf girl bewitched the husband of Elia. The Baratheons and Starks will claim that Rhaegar had kidnapped and raped Lyanna in the Wolfswood, before sneaking off with her to Dorne."

"So what is the truth?" Anslaf asked.

"When Lyanna had made an enemy of Rhaegar's father, Aerys, the Mad Fool tasked his son to find the Knight and slay her. When he found Lyanna in the Kingswood the night before the final joust, he could not raise his sword against her. They fell for each other in the Kingswood, and there they made love to each other, after a few barbs and insults, of course. When she returned to Winterfell after the tourney, she discovered that she was with child; the son of ice and fire. She panicked, and secretly sent a raven to Rhaegar, explaining what happened, and a desire to keep it a secret from her father. Rhaegar and his knights snuck into Winterfell during the dead of night, and retrieved Lady Lyanna as planned by all parties involved. They made for the Tower of Joy in Dorne, where they would marry. Rhaegar had planned to explain to the distraught lords of Winterfell and the angered princes of Dorne what he had done, to tell them that this was for the good of Westeros that he did this."

"It didn't turn out that way, though." Anslaf stated, knowing the story of Robert's Rebellion."

"No, it did not." Meridia sighed, clasping her hands. "Rickard and his son, Brandon, went to King's Landing, demanding answers from Rhaegar and his father. Aerys, in his mad fury, had both Starks brutally executed, Rickard by wildfire and Brandon by strangulation, as Lord Eddard told you. The deaths of her father and eldest brother, combined with the breaking out of war across the country, left Lyanna a distraught wreck. She begged her new husband to let her go, to make everything right with her brother. Rhaegar had become obsessed with the prophecy, however. He ordered her to remain in the tower, guarded by the three best Kingsguard: Oswell Whent, Arthur Dayne, and Gerold Hightower, while he crushed the Rebellion, unfeeling for her family. And as you know, Rhaegar died by Robert's hand at the Trident. Jaime Lannister slew his king, in an effort to stop him from setting the city alight. Tywin ordered the death of the Royal Family, carried out by his minions."

"And Eddard goes south to the Tower of Joy." Anslaf finished.

"Yes. When Eddard arrived with his seven companions, he found the three Kingsguard waiting for them. A bloody battle, besot by misunderstanding and fear, ensued between the two groups. Only Eddard and his right hand man, Howland Reed, survived the fight, and so he went up with Reed to the tower's main bedroom. There, he found Lyanna, lying in a pool of her own blood, and a nursing maid, Wylla. Lyanna had given birth to a healthy baby boy, with brown hair and grey eyes, but at the expense of her own life. As she lay dying on that bed, she held Eddard's hand. As I watched from Oblivion, she made her brother promise that he would raise the child as his own, as a Stark, away from the prying eyes of Robert Baratheon and the Lannisters, who would be threatened by the last true heir of the Iron Throne."

As Meridia finished, Anslaf felt a tear coming down his cheek. Millions dead, a country in shambles, and entire families shattered, for a prophecy that may not even succeed in the first place. But now Anslaf had to know…

"What happened to the Promised Prince?" he asked the Lady of Infinite Energies and the Lord of Light. "Where is Azor Ahai?" At this, Meridia grinned.

"Lord Eddard took his sister's son with him to Winterfell. There, he was raised as his own bastard son, the truth of the boy kept secret even from his own wife and children. This boy is currently at the Wall, now, defending the realm from the evil that seeks to destroy the world."

At this, Anslaf felt his mouth drop to the ground, as his eyes widened in realization. Azor Ahai had been right in front of him in Winterfell, staring at him with forlorn grey eyes and a hurt expression on his pale face.

"It…it cannot be!" Anslaf exclaimed, unsure of himself or Meridia at first. "The promised prince…" He took a few deep breaths.

"Jon Snow." He answered.

Meridia nodded. He saw her smile, even again as the brilliant light overtook him, and through the light, he heard Meridia speak one last time.

"He is the Prince who was promised, and his is the Song of Ice and Fire."

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter done.**

**Ok, I know some of you HATE the R+L=J theory, but to me, it's honestly the only theory that makes any sense for Jon, as the others have gaping holes in them. It has also been the one that was most hinted at by GRRM. Of course, I am prepared for the possibility that Jon is not what everyone says he is, but for the purpose of my fic, I am going with this.**

**Now on to another note. It seems my fic has attracted some…attention. Look, I am past the point of giving a shit about whether or not you like my fic. Art is not a democracy, as quoted by GRRM. I am not a trained monkey catering to your every whim and desire; I write for my own pleasure and because it gives me practice. If you want a canon story, read George's book series. Now, for those of you who are worried that this will turn into some happy go lucky B.S feast were everyone lives, guess what: this is still sort of set in the ASOIAF universe, so admittedly a few setbacks and good guy deaths WILL occur, so fear not. **

**I want to thank my followers and favorites. I have pushed over the 200 mark in follows, and I am near that point in favorites. Thanks to you guys, this story is now the fourth most popular in the GoT/Elder Scrolls crossover section. If any of you want to, go check out DoctorEagle's story: Of Kings, Draugr, and Dragons, by far the most popular in the crossover section. It is extremely well written, and it fully measures up to its reputation, in my opinion.**

**And finally, I have dedicated this chapter to Sir Christopher Lee, whom had passed away on the morning of June 11****th****, 2015. May he finally find the rest he deserves.**


	22. The Man of Glass

**Decius**

**Imperial Military Camp, near the Ruby Ford**

**8****th**** Frostfall, 204 4E/ 298 AL**

* * *

Decius took another sip of brandy as he went over the map of Harrenhal that he had procured from Tywin's abandoned camp, along with a few plans he had drawn up.

"We can outflank Tywin on the King's Road, sir." Herman was saying to him, pointing out that the northern Crownlands were relatively unguarded from attack. "We should consider plundering those castles in between us and King's Landing."

"Are you forgetting that we don't have the manpower for that kind of assault?" Decius countered. "It will take time sacking castles, time that gives Lord Tywin ample time to rearm, resupply, and hit us in our rear when we are too busy sacking some small castle in the Crownlands."

"I don't know about that, sir." Captain Cornelius offered. "We've received word that Edmure Tully has launched an offensive to reclaim the southwestern Riverlands from the remains of the Lannister forces stationed there."

"What about Lord Eddard's army?" Decius asked Herman.

"We've received a raven this morning from Lord Eddard's camp. He wants to launch an offensive into the Westerlands itself. Draw out Tywin from his hiding hole in Harrenhal." Herman informed him.

"Will Tywin fall for that?" Decius asked his second-in-command. "With us sitting right across from him on the Ruby Ford, he is going to want to make sure that we either don't pursue him or assault the capital."

"So we assault the fortress, sir?" Herman asked him, with an audible tone of concern in his voice. "I'm not entirely sure that we would have the manpower to overcome the defenses." He pointed to the outline of the fortress on the map. "The curtain wall around the fortress is a hundred feet high and sixty feet thick at its largest points, and the gatehouse is damned near one hundred twenty feet high, if the scouts are to be believed. Not to mention that those towers, although they look like twisted scraps of stone, can still met out punishing amounts of fire from the lower levels." He explained to his superior.

"Hm." Decius pondered as he stroked his mustache. "We could ask Edmure if we could borrow a few thousand of his own men. We'd have more than enough manpower to assault the fortress, then."

"Perhaps, sir." Herman agreed. At that moment, a messenger walked in through the flap of the tent.

"Sir, Centurion Cethegus has arrived. He has Lorch with him." The messenger reported.

"Thank you, Fulvio. Have you forgotten how to salute?" Decius remarked dryly, before Herman could yell at the poor man.

"I haven't, sir! No excuse, sir!" Fulvio exclaimed as he gave an Imperial salute.

Decius returned the salute, and Fulvio sauntered off out of the tent. Decius turned to Herman and Cornelius, a smirk on his face.

"Well, it seems that our plans for a Dornish alliance are going well so far."

"Has Doran agreed to send an emissary?" Herman asked his commander. The day after the battle, they had sent a raven to Sunspear, informing him that Gregor Clegane, the man whom had murdered his sister and nephew, was dead, and his sword awaited him and Oberyn at the Imperial's camp in the Riverlands, along with the man whom murdered his niece.

"Yes. Apparently, he is sending his brother, from the looks of it." Decius confirmed. "From what I've read in his letter, Doran suffers from a severe case of gout in his legs, and thus is unable to travel far outside Sunspear or the Water Gardens. So, he sends his brother as his representative for nearly everything diplomatic. Sometimes he sends his daughter as well."

"His daughter, sir?" Cornelius asked him, surprise in his voice.

"Yes. Her name is Adrianne. Apparently in Dorne, women are considered the equals of men in almost every way, and succession passes to the eldest _child_, not the eldest son. And as the biggest kicker, apparently bastards are considered the equals of true born children there, and they can become legitimized over the trueborn heirs if they prove apt enough in statecraft." Decius answered, gagging the people in the tent for a reaction.

Herman merely shrugged, as it was similar to how Nordic culture worked. Cornelius, on the other hand, looked like a fish out of water, as the words never made it out of his mouth, and died on his lips.

"Yes, strange custom, I know. But we need these people on our side if we are to bring this war to a quick resolution. And the sooner the better, too." Decius reminded. The rest of that sentence he didn't particularly need to say, for everyone in that room knew what was coming to this land in a few short years.

"So, the Harrenhal issue is settled, then. Herman, I want the engineers to start drawing up plans for artillery support. Depending on the strength of those walls, I want anywhere from one to two trebuchets, supported by four more onagers. I also want a siege tower that can both offload on top of that gate house _and _smash the gate down with a battering ram."

"It will probably take a few weeks, sir, but I'll make sure it gets done." Herman responded. They saluted each other, and Herman exited the tent, intent on seeing the job got done correctly and quickly. Decius then turned to Cornelius.

"Cornelius, I need you and your men to seek out any weak points in those walls. Somewhere that our artillery can breach in the shortest time possible."

"Already on it, sir." Cornelius saluted him, and like Herman before him, made his way out of the tent to his men. Decius took one last look at the map of Harrenhal, and then left the command tent.

* * *

**Arya**

* * *

Of all the sights she had seen so far in the world, none so far had made quite an impact as the Imperials' military camp. Unlike the camps that Westerosi soldiers made, which were unfortified and an often semi-organized collection of tents and stables, at best, the Imperials' camp resembled more of a small fortress. Ditches had been dug on all four sides of the camp, with a wooden palisade acting as a wall. In each of the four corners stood a guard tower, manned by two sentries operating a scorpion. The camp itself was large; it was almost a small town into itself. There were practice fields, stables, and even a portable forge. The tents were all tan, organized into neat rows of ten. At the center of the camp was one of the largest tents Arya had ever seen, save for only a circus tent. This was the Legate's tent, and was the command and control center for the army.

"Impressed, little one?" Brutus asked her, smiling as he chewed on an apple. "If you think this is impressive, you should see the actual forts in Tamriel. Not as majestic as castles, mind you, but they'll keep ya' safe just the same."

"What's Tamriel like?" She asked the cheerfully brutish soldier, as she sat on a barrel, swinging her legs to and fro.

"Well for one, it's a lot bigger that Westeros. And by that, I mean both in population and area. We've got about three times more people in the Empire than you do, and about forty million of them live in Cyrodiil alone. The rest live in Skyrim, Hammerfell, and High Rock. The land itself is almost as big as Essos, to hear Marcus tell of it. But then again, he's more learned than me." He informed, taking another bite out of his apple.

"So what is Cyrodiil like?"

"Perhaps the most beautiful country on the planet." Marcus quipped, joining the two. "The mighty Niben splits the country in two, its headwaters beginning at Late Rumare, and opening up into the Topal Bay. Rich farms on rolling hills cover much of the country, and green forests teeming with life and beauty round out the rest. And in the middle of Lake Rumare, it sits."

"What sits?"

"The Imperial City. Large, majestic, and proud. Words can scarce describe its beauty, ma'am, but suffice to say I'd think you'd like it more than you did King's Landing."

Brutus snorted, and Arya saw Marcus give him the kind of stare that hardened officers gave their subordinates when they were dangerously close to screwing up, the kind that said 'Shut the fuck up or you will regret it'.

Brutus held his hand up. "It's true, though, sir! Don't pretend that there aren't gangs in that otherwise noble city, least of all the Red Riders. Oh, and what about the corrupt politicians, including that snake Motierre?"

"And despite all its problems, it's still a far better city than nearly every one I've been to. So quite your damn carping and get back to work." Marcus retorted before giving a short nod to Arya and sauntering off.

Brutus sighed and threw down his apple, which by now was just down to the core. "Grumpy old man, though he's at least friendlier than the prefect. Trust me, you don't want the prefect riled up."

"Why?" Arya wondered aloud.

Brutus gave her the most serious look that she ever saw him give someone. "If I told you that he tried to have a man literally crucified for sleeping on duty, would you believe me? Legate calmed him down enough, though, and the sentence was reduced to merely flogging." He chuckled. "But he's one of the best damned warriors I've ever seen in my life. He killed the Mountain, you know?"

Arya's eyes widened in surprise. "No way. No one could kill the Mountain, not even Jaime Lannister!"

"You'd better believe it. Close match, from what I've heard. Would've been the prefect's last if it weren't for now-centurion Dorian. At any rate, word around camp is that they've invited one of the Martells over to discuss the terms of an alliance."

To Arya, this made sense. It was well known all across Westeros that out of all the enemies of House Lannister, the Martells were probably their biggest, due to Lannister troops raping and murdering Doran's sister and her children during the Sack of King's Landing seventeen years ago. If Decius could convince Doran and Oberyn to join Stannis's cause, the Lannisters would find themselves surrounded and cut off from the Westerlands.

Divide and conquer, as the Imperials would say.

"Ah, I better get back to work, little one." Brutus sighed. "Wouldn't want to make old Marcus even grumpier."

He ruffled Arya's hair a bit, chuckling at her scowl before walking away. After he had left, Arya decided to hop off the barrel and look for Gendry, who last she heard was working as the smithy's assistant.

After wondering through the camp for about ten minutes, she found him hard at work near the forge. He was shirtless, with not a hint of body fat on him, as a thin coat of sweat gleaned over his strong, muscular body-.

Arya could quickly feel the heat rising up to her cheeks thinking of him like that, as she turned away quickly from the sight. Though it was true that she was turning two-and-ten next month, and nearing the age when she would be considered a woman in her country, she did not believe Gendry to be any more than a friend. Her big, bull-headed, strong, muscular friend…

Why was she acting like this?

She decided to risk it and walk up to him. He finished hammering out a piece of steel, then looked up at her, as he reached for a canteen.

"Arya." He greeted, adopting that ever mischievous grin he got while around her.

"Gendry." She replied, smirking while trying to calm her emotions down. "How are you doing, stupid?"

"Can't complain, Arry." He retorted. "Although, as a matter of fact, the smithy needs all the help he can get. I don't know how many swords I've sharpened in the past two days. Not to mention all the shields that needed dents banged out, mending spears, fletching arrows, repairing horseshoes; it's like these guys haven't had anyone professional to look at their equipment in months!"

"Well, if it's any consolation, once we reach Winterfell, you can ask Mikken if he'll let you work in his shop. You can make all the quality swords you want-,"

"Arya." He cut her off, his voice taking on a hard, pained edge to it. "There's something I've been meaning to tell you…"

"What could it possibly be?" she jokingly demanded. "Please don't tell me you're actually planning to stay with these men." She chuckled.

She stopped chuckling as soon as she saw him look away, with regret in his stormy blue eyes.

The silence was all the answer that she needed.

"You _are_ planning to stay with them." She said, her voice coming out as a horrified whisper. "Why?"

"Arya, I don't have a place in Westeros. Here, I have to bow and scrap before every noble who even deigns to look at me. In Tamriel-,"

"In Tamriel, it's the exact same thing! Or did you forget that they also have nobility there, too?" She cut in, her anger masking the sundering of her heart, which was breaking into a million, tiny pieces. "You'll have to bow and scrap before kings and barons and jarls, and maybe even the Emperor himself!"

"Maybe, but there I won't be treated like some unwanted bastard! Do you have any _idea_ how hard it is, growing up in poverty, having to claw your way through the day just to get some porridge? No, how could you? You were raised in nobility by the great Lord Eddard Stark." He seethed.

At that, Arya slapped him, her hand leaving a clear red mark on his right cheek.

"How dare you?" She seethed. "My father isn't like the other lords. We would have taken you in! Treated you like family."

"Arry." He began, the hurt welling in his eyes now. "You wouldn't be my family. You would be my Lady."

At that, Arya couldn't control herself anymore. "Fine! I hope you rot in fucking Tamriel!" she yelled.

She then turned and ran. She ran fast and hard, ignoring Gendry's pleas, running until she burst into her tent.

And then, she fell onto her cot, weeping out all her pain and heartbreak.

* * *

**Cyric**

**King's Landing**

* * *

_Drip, drip, drip_

The Bosmeri thief woke up to the same sound that he always did for these past two weeks; the dripping of water from a leak in the ceiling above his cell. He groggily opened his eyes, and looked around the familiar cell.

As far as he could see, nothing changed in the dimly lit room, save for the fact that at least the guard had the courtesy to change out the food tray. He stood up and began to shuffle over to the cell door, as injuries due to torture and malnutrition had left him quite weak. He managed to sit himself back down on the floor near the tray, which now contained a bowl of brown porridge and a cup of what _looked_ to be water- if you could call the disgusting, disease-ridden swill that passed for water _drinkable_, that is.

He began to gulp down the porridge, washing it down with the water, making sure nothing went to waste, despite the foul taste of both the slop and the water. A loud knock on his door shocked him, making him drop the bowl, which splattered its contents all over the floor.

"Oi, pointy ears!" A guard called out to him. "How does it feel knowing that in just a few days your gonna be swinging from a rope? Just thinking about your neck being snapped like a fucking twig brings a smile to my face." The guard mocked.

Cyric scoffed. "If anything, it was worth it putting that arrow through your friend's lung, Wylson. Shame I didn't do the same to you."

"SHUT YOUR GOB, WHORESON!" The guard, Wylson, shouted angrily. "I'm going to enjoy watching the crows peck apart your worthless, ploughing corpse!"

With that, the sound of heavy footfalls signaled the guard walking away, or rather, angrily stomping away, to Cyric's ears. The Bosmeri thief let out a sigh that he didn't know he had been holding in for a while now. Truth be told, he didn't really feel like dying this way; executed by hanging to the cheering of the rabble. As a matter of fact, he'd rather die old in his bed, with two striking young lasses besides him and a pile of gold around him.

"Heh, who would come back for a thief like me, though?" He mumbled, giving voice to his thoughts.

"Oh, not very many, my friend, but there are a few who will. And even fewer who can break you out of a place like this."

A deep, rich, masculine voice broke him out of his musings. He managed to get up off the floor and trudge himself over to where the window was. On the other side of the heavy oak door was a man, dressed in a yellow merchant's tunic and blue travelling pants. The man in question looked Andalic in origin, with a bald head, dark, thick eyebrows, and a five-o'clock shadow on his face. If a woman had looked upon his visage, she might have said that this brown eyed man looked ruggedly interesting, though not quite handsome. His most striking features, however, were his pearl white teeth, which showed off their brightness whenever he smiled fully.

One might say that his smile was as fair as spring.

"And you think you can?" Cyric asked this man, unsure of how he even got in here in the first place. "How?"

"Correction: I _know_ I can." The mysterious man corrected the thief. "And in more ways than you'd ever expect. I shall help you, Cyric, but I must know that you'll return the favor."

"Riiiight." Cyric groaned. "Can't possibly get something for nothing."

"Of course." The man confirmed. "When all is said and done, I am a merchant. So, do you want my help?"

Cyric quickly considered his two options. Either receive help from this mysterious stranger, or count on Joffrey being in a rather generous and merciful mood.

It really wasn't much of a choice, at all.

"Yes." He spoke, without hesitation or second thought.

The stranger smiled, and for some reason, that smile sent shivers down Cyric's spine.

"It's a deal. Once it's done, we shall meet at the crossroads near the Kingswood, south of the city. Oh, and I must give you something, to remember me by."

As soon as the man had finished speaking, hot, searing pain presented itself on Cyric's right temple, like a hot iron was being branded onto the side of his face.

"Argh!" He grimaced in pain as the burn started to cool. "What the hell was that."

"A mark, to show that we're…" The man paused momentarily, as if searching for the right word. "Associates."

The man turned as if to leave, but Cyric stopped him.

He had to know whom this man was.

"Wait a minute! You haven't even told me your name." he called out, though he was a little confused as to how this man already knew whom he was.

The man laughed. "Ah, apologies, my friend. I forgot my manners. I am Gaunter O'Dimm, a merchant of mirrors known over these lands as Master Mirror, or the Man of Glass."

With that, O'Dimm tapped the door lightly with his foot three times, and just as mysteriously as he appeared, he vanished, leaving a very confused and agitated Cyric in his wake.

Suddenly, the Bosmer thief felt the ground starting to shake below him, as a tremor passed through the city. The shaking quickly subsided, but then was followed by an even larger tremor, crashing him to the ground, and lasting a minute longer than the last. As soon as that had passed, he tried to stand back up.

That was when the largest, and most severe, tremor struck.

The ground gave way from beneath him, and Cyric felt himself falling for a few seconds before landing on something relatively soft.

Relative being the key word.

As soon as he landed, he felt his head smack against something a bit harder than whatever he landed in, and soon knew only darkness.

* * *

**A/N: YOU THOUGHT I WAS DEAD? ON THE CONTRARY, THE RUMORS OF MY DEMISE HAVE BEEN GREATLY EXAGERATTED!**

**Ok, now that I'm through with that…Yes, I am completely aware that I've been away from this story for over half a year now. And I do apologize for that. However, finding a new job, plus moving into a new place, plus school, plus paying off overdue bills, plus a bunch of other happy horseshit got in the way. I understand if some of you guys think that I update slower than GRRM publishes books. (I probably do, lol.), but this fic is my passion. I will not abandon it to the whims of fate just yet. This story will be updated; I promise you that.**

**Now, yes, there is going to be a new subplot. (I can already here some of you groan "Oh fucking God, too many damned POV's already!") But wait, I wasn't done explaining! This subplot will directly tie into Anslaf's backstory and that of his brother's. How, you ask? That is for me to know and you to find out. ;)**

**As for whom Gaunter O'Dimm is, I will give you a little snippet of what I am planning if you can correctly guess whom he is and what universe he originally comes from. I will do it via PM only, and will not announce the winner in the next chapter.**

**Till next time!**


	23. Evil's Soft First Touches

**Cyric**

**Crossroads North of the King's Wood, Crownlands**

**Midnight, 9****th**** Frostfall, 204 4E/ 298 AL**

* * *

_Evil_

Cyric had been constantly reflecting on the meaning of this word since his escape from the dungeons of King's Landing.

Since running away from, in abject horror, the pile of dead children he had landed on in the aftermath of the earthquake.

Later, he had learned from a merchant- whom had conveniently bought his things from the guardsman who had captured him- that King Joffrey had ordered the slaughter of all his father's illegitimate children, due to claims of his own suspect birth and Stannis' letter. This lead to the people of King's Landing to dub Joffrey "The Butcher of Aegon's Hill".

After reobtaining his armor and weapons from the merchant by threatening him with death, Cyric had walked fifteen miles to where O'Dimm said that they would meet, occasionally hiding from a passing patrol of Lannister guards. Many of these guards, it seemed, were becoming increasingly disturbed by the various atrocities that the King was committing, with one of them even muttering that it had been far better under Robert the Drunkard. By the time he had arrived at the crossroads, it was near midnight, as he had woken up in the early evening.

And so he sat down in front of the crossroad signpost, marked with signs pointing to Storm's End, King's Landing, and Highgarden, and meditated on the meaning of evil.

His uncle had once told him, 'Evil is evil. Greater, lesser, middling, it makes no difference. The degree is arbitrary, and the definition's blurred.' At the time, he paid him no heed, but now as he was sitting here, next to a signpost underneath a weeping willow tree, he thought back on both the events of the day and his own life.

Joffrey was a monster, of that there was little doubt. The boy was cruel, vile, and insane. However, Cyric knew that the Thieves Guild and himself weren't all that better. He lied, he stole, he cheated. He had even killed guardsmen when a heist went wrong. And before that, he had been the leader of a band of guerillas, killing anyone that was crucial to the Thalmor cause. He liked to think that the Guild had some sort of honor to it; that no thief in the Guild would steal from each other. But that illusion for them had been shattered by their previous Guildmaster; the treacherous Mercer Frey.

_Scum._ Cyric thought bitterly. _Just like the rest of his rotten family of weasels_.

Apparently, Mercer had been the son of a relatively wealthy Westerosi Lord, Walder Frey, and according to those he talked to, the Freys were notorious for being weasels and con artists.

The apple never falls far from the tree.

Cyric was brought out of his reflection by someone whistling a tune. The melody was one of foreboding and dread, as if someone was warning him to stay away. The thief and former leader of the Silver Crescents turned and saw Gaunter sitting on top of the signposts, whistling that creepy song. The merchant of mirrors stopped his tune, and without looking at Cyric, addressed him.

"I'd knew you'd come." O'Dimm greeted, finally turning his head to face Cyric while adopting his trademark smirk.

"You a soothsayer?" Cyric asked, curious as to whom O'Dimm really was.

"It matters little who I am." O'Dimm shrugged. "Your escape, I made possible, so now, you feel you owe me."

"Memento you gave me-it's a pretty effective reminder." Cyric deadpanned, pointing to the brand on his temple.

"That is its purpose." O'Dimm confirmed. "Incidentally, I find it quite funny how even the rottenest scoundrels have this inner compunction to repay 'debts of gratitude'. Humans, elves, beastmen…all races. You really must explain that to me, one day. As for the here and now- tell me, how did you manage with the Lannisters?"

"You appear out of nowhere, summon an earthquake, then disappear just as mysteriously. Let me guess; you're a mage?" Cyric guessed. As far as he recalled, only the most powerful of mages in all of Tamriel were capable of producing such phenomena, and even then, it was mostly regulated to a few individuals.

"Oh please no! I cannot stand spells." O'Dimm scoffed. "Childish hocus pocus, it's just not interesting. What I find interesting are true tales, of true mortal lives. Like the one I shall tell you now." At this, O'Dimm's face became serious. "It's about a man, worse than most. A vulgar, despicable man with a heart of stone. A man who refuses to pay his debts."

Cyric sighed. "Really think this will interest me? Any reason why?"

"Because he's wronged you as well. His name is Elerand Delmar." Gaunter answered, hopping off the crossroad sign.

_Delmar? Could this man be…?_

Cyric shook his head. "I don't have a thing against Elerand."

"Oh but you do!" O'Dimm corrected the thief. "For you see…Elerand Delmar did willfully and maliciously carry out the Massacre of Glenpoint four years ago. Do you know why he did it? Because he's a degenerate monster in human flesh who feeds on the pain and suffering of others!"

At that, Cyric froze. Glenpoint had been a supporter of the Silver Crescents, and their campaign to liberate Valenwood from Thalmor oppression. The company had been resting in the city, indulging in its pleasures, when a Thalmor field army had attacked the city. The men and women of the company had fought bravely, killing five Altmer for every one of theirs, but ultimately they were outnumbered, and overran. Every man, woman, and child in the city had been put to the sword, save for him, as he had escaped the slaughter beforehand. It remained to that day a point of guilt and shame for him, and part of the reason why he had signed on with Anslaf in the first place.

Cyric shook himself out of his memories, and crossed his arms before answering Gaunter O'Dimm.

"Well, you clearly don't like him. What did he do to you?" He asked.

"He and I made a pact, under which I called on my many talents and associates to give him what he desired." O'Dimm admitted to him. "Now the time's come to pay, and yet, he shirks his obligation."

"Need me to collect a debt?" Cyric scoffed. "I'm not some hired muscle."

"Muscle is not what this requires." O'Dimm corrected again. "It need a soul intelligent and clever, an individual who fears no dare. Someone like you."

"Pure flattery, that." Cyric remarked, sardonically.

"Of course it is. After all, I am a travelling merchant. But make no mistake, I have many interesting wares on offer." O'Dimm confirmed, walking around the thief and former mercenary leader.

"Such as?"

"Surefit, abundance for the body and soul. You will lack neither food nor drink. As a thief, you might desire an unbreakable lockpick, one that will open any lock. Your body, agile as never before. Your mind, faster than lightning. Romantic prowess to charm all woman kind. But above all, I over a tale of a great and true adventure, the fate of only a chosen few." The mysterious man offered Cyric, who was now honestly intrigued. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling there was more to what O'Dimm offered him.

"Awfully generous. And all that for my help with one small matter? Wouldn't want anything else from me?" Cyric questioned the 'merchant'.

"Just one." Gaunter replied. "Honesty."

"What did you do for Elerand? Break him out of a cell, too?" Cyric asked the Man of Glass, who sighed as if remembering an event.

"In some sense, yes. I remember the day quite well. There was a light drizzle, yet the cold tore right through you. Elerand appeared at the break of dawn; haggard, and with nothing but the clothes on his back and his sword by his side. It quite pained me to look at him. He asked for help, and help I gave. Made him a rich man, esteemed, successful, and powerful. He is who he is today thanks only to me." O'Dimm shook his head. "And yet afterward he turned his back, shunned me, sends me off when I dare ask for payment. He even sicced his hounds on me once! He's thus left me no other option than to invoke the terms of our pact, and that's where you come in."

"Hmm. How much does Elerand owe you?" Cyric asked him. Perhaps if he could…borrow…the coin from the Lannisters, he could pay off Elerand's debt and be free of that damned mark.

At this, O'Dimm scoffed. "Gentlemen don't discuss coin."

"I need to know the details if you want me to get my hands dirty." Cyric reminded him. "So how much? One million septims? Two million?"

"I'm no usurer to lend coin for interest." O'Dimm sharply retorted. "No, what Elerand owes me is far more personal than shiny things that clink. As much as I regret it, I can say no more. I must respect his privacy, after all."

"Hmph." Cyric grunted. "What about you? Call yourself a man of many talents; can't take care of this on your own?"

"Therein lies the catch." Master Mirror admitted somewhat glumly. "Our pact states that before I can collect my due, I must fulfill three wishes for him. Yet I cannot fulfill them directly, making use instead of a…hmm…how should I put this…a proxy."

"Hm. So what you need is a sucker." Cyric accused.

"What I need is an ally. And something tells me that I'll find none better than you." O'Dimm corrected, beginning to walk north.

"Alright. So what do you expect me to do?" Cyric asked.

"To start with, join me in paying Delmar a visit at the Golden Rose Inn, in the Westerosi Reach, three months from now. Then, we shall improvise." O'Dimm replied. "I believe, however, that all will end well, and, once it does, we three will meet and thank one another for the voyage we shared."

"Right. Specifics, now." Cyric demanded. "I thought Elerand had three wishes, requests, whatever."

"He does. He may ask three things of us, yet we won't know what they are until we visit him." O'Dimm informed him.

Cyric sighed. "Alright. I'll go visit him three months from now. No promises, though."

"That is all I require." O'Dimm said as he clasped his hands. "I'll promise you: you won't regret it."

"Now remove the damned mark." Cyric pointed to the brand on his temple.

"Naturally. Just as soon as you complete your tasks. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some business to attend to." O'Dimm replied.

"Another debt to collect?" Cyric asked the cryptic man.

"Perhaps." Was all the Man of Glass said, before turning and walking, vanishing into thin air, leaving a very confused and agitated thief, left to ponder what he was to do between now and then.

* * *

**Erik**

**One week later, White Harbor, The North**

**16****th**** Frostfall, 204 4E/ 298 AL**

* * *

"And so King Robert said to me, 'Lord Wyman, I don't think I've seen anyone kill two men just by sitting on them!'"

Around the dinner table, the guests of Lord Wyman Manderly laughed raucously, save for Erik and Sansa, as the latter simply sighed and the former just smirked and rolled his eyes. They had arrived in White Harbor a day ago, and they were currently resting for a couple of days before taking the road back to Winterfell. So far, Erik was of the opinion that White Harbor, despite being a smaller city, was a friendlier place all-around than King's Landing. The people seemed nicer, the food better, and the air smelled of salt and fish, unlike the unholy stench that seeped out of the slums in King's Landing.

"You tell naught but tales, my lord!" Wyman's cousin, Ser Marlon Manderly, japed. "As I recall, you were five stone lighter and ten times more handsome then!"

"Aye." Wyman agreed. "But me swinging my sword doesn't sound as interesting as me crushing my enemies with my weight, don't you agree?" The fat lord turned his head to look at Erik. "So tell me, Lord Erik. When will wedding between yourself and our dear Lady Sansa take place? I do so love a joyous celebration!"

"When King Stannis wins the war, my lord." Sansa answered for him, while taking his hand and squeezing it. Erik remembered with elation the day when Eddard told him of what was to come.

…

_Fifteen days ago_

_The preparations for the journey north to White Harbor were going along well. In just another day, everything would be set, and Sansa would finally be able to go back home along with Erik, Valdimar, and a retinue of twenty Baratheon soldiers. Erik was on the pier at that time, watching the blue waves of the sea crash against the ashen sand of Dragonstone. _

_There was a strange beauty to the place, he had to admit it. True, it wasn't as visually stunning as the Pine Forest in Falkreath, nor did it have the wild and untamed beauty of the North, but it was visually pleasing, in a surreal sort of way._

_Of course, he supposed, perhaps it's beauty was only skin deep, judging by how sulky King Stannis looked half the time- when he wasn't gritting his teeth about something, that is._

_Someone cleared their throat behind him, and Erik turned around to see Lord Eddard and King Stannis standing right behind him, with the King holding some sort of scroll in his right hand. The young man straightened his back and made a small bow to both of them._

"_Your Grace. Lord Eddard." He greeted._

"_Ser Erik." Stannis returned gruffly. Ned just simply smiled at him, though the young Nord thought he saw something in that smile._

"_I humbly beg your pardon, your grace, but what brings you and Lord Eddard out here? We aren't scheduled to depart for another day." Erik asked, ignoring to correct Stannis that he wasn't a knight in Westerosi tradition_

"_I'm well aware of that." Stannis replied. "But you, Lord Eddard, and myself have some business to attend to first." Stannis paused for a moment, then resumed. "What is your last name, boy?"_

"_Hanson, your grace." Erik answered the king. "But I fail to see how that's important."_

"_It matters for what we are about to do." Eddard answered for the one true king of Westeros. "Erik Hanson, I bid thee kneel before Stannis of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."_

_Erik did as he was commanded, and knelt before the King, his heart racing with excitement while his mind swam in confusion. What did they plan to do? Did they plan to knight him? Raise him to landed status? He thought only citizens of Westeros had that right._

"_Erik of the House Hanson, do you swear to obey the laws and decrees of the king, and of your liege lord, Eddard of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, and Warden of the North?" Stannis began, as he began reading from the now unfurled scroll._

"_I swear." Erik answered, his heart beat quickening as he steeled his voice._

"_Do you swear to uphold the faith of your people, whether it be to the old gods or new?"_

"_I swear."_

"_Do you swear to defend your people from all threats, foreign and domestic?_

"_I swear."_

"_Then by the power invested in me by the grace of all the gods known to man, I bid thee rise, Erik Hanson, Lord of Springhall, and Defender of the Long Lake."_

_The new lordling let out a breath that he did not know he had been holding in. A _Lord_? He had almost been expecting knighthood, but to be raised to lordly status? And a landed lord, at that? Never before had he thought such a thing possible._

"_Thank you, Your Grace!" he breathed as he rose. "But I didn't think that non-Westerosi could be raised to lordly status. Besides, I have nothing in the way of experience."_

"_Usually, no." Eddard answered. "But in your case, we made a special exception for you. Countless times, you have come to my aid. You have proved your loyalty to my family time and time again, from Bran's fall to rescuing my daughter and myself. And, as it happens, Lord Edric Marwyn, the last one to hold the castle, recently died heirless at the Whispering Wood. I can't think of a more deserving person to gift his lands and holdings than you."_

"_Won't many of the other Northern lords be upset at this decision, Lord Eddard?" Erik asked his now liege lord. If politics were the same in Westeros as they were in Skyrim, then he could assume the other lords would jockey to claim that particular castle and its lands. _

"_A few." Eddard answered with a frown. "But they will understand it is my decision to make, not theirs."_

"_There is the issue of progeny, of course." Stannis interrupted. "If you do not wish to repeat the late Lord Marwyn's mistake, I suggest that you start looking for a bride from one of the northern lords immediately."_

"_I believe we already have someone in mind." Eddard said, a twinkle in his eye…_

…

And so Eddard gathered him and Sansa together, and announced their betrothal. Erik remembered how Sansa practically jumped into his arms and kissed him, tears of joy streaming down her face. After that, Lord Eddard had boarded his own ship and left for the front lines.

"Ah, Springhall." Lord Manderly said, snapping him out of his revelry. "Now those are some good lands, Lord Hanson. Sits right on the Kingsroad north of Winterfell, and coupled with it being near the lake, it's responsible for most of our freshwater fishing in the North. Not to mention that it's a good resting place before reaching Last Hearth."

"Wasn't there a battle fought near Springhall some seventy years ago, my lord?" Ser Bartimus, one of Wyman's closest friends and warriors asked.

"Aye. Surprised you've sobered enough to remember that, Bartimus." Wyman japed. "But yes. Seventy-two years ago, Lady Sansa's great-great grandfather fought against the Wildling forces of Raymund Redbeard in the Battle of the Long Lake. The battle was a victory for the North, although Lord William lost his life in the fighting." The fat lord turned his head back to Erik. "I assume, my lord, you've been reading up on your demesnes?"

"When I have the time, I have." Erik answered, taking a drink of his wine. "I'm also trying to read up on all the laws and codes of the North and the Seven Kingdoms."

"Feel free to use my library, then." Wyman offered. "I daresay it rivals the library in Oldtown."

"Thank you, my lord." Erik thanked sincerely. "And as for your earlier question, the wedding will be held in Winterfell."

"Ah, splendid!" Wyman exclaimed. "I will be sure to come and bring my finest barrels of triple mead, then!"

As the feast went on and the dinner guests laughed and talked and sang, Erik could not help but sigh contently.

It was as if the gods themselves favored them.

* * *

**Anslaf**

**The next day.**

**Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, The Wall.**

* * *

The Blackwolf had travelled across the breath of worlds. He had stood in the presence of Shor in the Hall of Valor. He had traversed the dangerous and utterly alien Apocrypha. He had braved the deathly stillness of the Soul Cairn. And in this world, he had seen many impressive sights and monuments, from the White-Gold Tower to the Chantry of Auri-El.

But with all his experiences in other worlds than these, he had to admit to himself that he wasn't prepared for the true majesty of the Wall.

The enormous structure stood at an imposing seven hundred feet high, stretched three hundred miles from the Bay of Seals in the east to the Milkwater River in the west, and was an impressive three hundred feet thick at its base. Any attacker would have a next to impossible time of getting past the massive fortification, even without the added presence of defenders on the Wall itself.

Anslaf had heard in Winterfell that the Night's Watch was a broken shell of its former self, acting more as a glorified penal colony rather than the noble order it had been at its founding. The force, once over ten thousand strong, was down only to around a dwindling nine hundred men now, and could only properly man three castles of the nineteen that were built along the Wall.

_Dark times, indeed_, Anslaf thought grimly as the ship pulled into the Eastwatch docks. As soon as the gangplank was lowered, Anslaf began walking down with the men he selected for this mission; Teldryn, Jordis, Stenvar, Argis, Belrand, Cosnach, Vorstag…

And the Red Priestess, Melisandre.

Anslaf was admittedly still unsure about his decision to bring her here. A large part of him still did not trust the priestess, despite her sincerity in wanting to find and guide Jon Snow toward his destiny. Another part of him, however, told him that she had some part to play in the war to come. Whether for good or ill, he was yet unsure. He just prayed to Akatosh and Talos that she would not stab him in the back given the opportunity.

As he walked down the pier, he noticed a lean, hard, and wiry man dressed in black walking towards him. As the watchman came closer, Anslaf made out the details on his face; small, close-set eyes, a nose that had been broken in the past, and a pox ravaged face. The man had a sparse, rough beard, and a widow's peak on his greying brown hair.

"Hold there, strangers." The man commanded in a rough voice, his accent that of the Iron Islands. "Who are ye?"

"Friends of the Night's Watch." Anslaf introduced. "My name is Anslaf Delmar, Thane of Lakeview Manor. And these are my comrades Teldryn, Jordis, Stenvar, Argis, Belrand, Cosnach, Vorstag, and the Red Priestess Melisandre."

"Cotter Pyke. Commander of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea." The gruff man introduced. "Now if we've got the ploughing pleasantries out of the way, what business do ye have here?"

"We're looking for one of your sword brothers. A bastard whom goes by the name Jon Snow. I know he swore his vows at Castle Black. I assume he's still there, is he not?" Anslaf informed, keeping his tone friendly but serious.

At first, Cotter gave him a look of, 'how am I supposed to fucking know', but then scratched his beard and sighed.

"Seems we need to talk. Indoors, and privately." Cotter spoke, his voice less harsh but no less commanding.

"If I may, my lord." Melisandre began. "I wish to be included in this conversation."

"Funny, I don't remember giving ye a fucking invite." Cotter snapped rather harshly. "Why do ya want to be included on our little heart to heart?"

"Simply because the matter is of great importance." She simply stated.

Cotter glared at her for a moment, but ultimately relented when he got a look from Anslaf that said it would be pointless to argue with her.

"Hmph. Very well. But the rest of you's get to stay in the guest hall. And try not to get into any scraps with the brothers around here!" He warned sternly, before turning his back to head towards the keep. Anslaf and Melisandre followed the salty old commander into the keep, where they headed toward his office. The old Ironborn sat down at his desk, making a motion for the two to be seated in the guest chairs across from his desk. Anslaf gladly obliged, while Melisandre politely shook her head and elected to remain standing.

"Now, to the matter at hand." Cotter began, his voice serious. "Yeah, he was at Castle Black, around three weeks ago. But right around the time those Imperials smacked Tywin in the gob at the Green Fork, we received word that Lord Commander Mormont was attacked. By wights."

Anslaf saw it on Cotter's face when he said that last sentence, a mixture of trepidation and concern.

"The Long Night is near upon us." Anslaf heard Melisandre whisper.

"Don't know about any of that shite, but from what I've heard, Snow saved the Lord Commander. At any rate, the Old Bear's gone north with about three hundred other sworn brothers, Jon Snow among them." Cotter informed them, pointing out the window.

"What was there purpose?" Anslaf inquired. Three hundred men of the Watch seemed a tad excessive for a ranging.

"Reconnaissance by force." Cotter answered him. "The Old Bear wants to know why the undead are rising, and _if _the White Walkers are truly returning."

"They are returning, commander." Anslaf returned, his voice foreboding. "Make no mistake on that. And if the old tales are true about them, then I highly doubt the ranging has the weapons necessary to defeat them."

He had not spent his time idly in Winterfell. He had taken the few months long that he was there studying in the great library, learning all he could about the Seven Kingdoms, the Wall and the Night's Watch, and the elusive Others. According to the old legends, White Walkers could only be killed by three things. The first of these items were weapons made from dragonglass, or obsidian. The next item on the list were weapons of a substance called dragonsteel, or "weapons forged with divine power". He oft wondered if his sword, Peacemaker, would fit with the description, since it was forged in the Skyforge, which was said to be Aedric in origin. Finally, the last weapon on the list was dragonfire. That part Anslaf had the most confidence in; however, he didn't want to rely too much on his Thu'um if he had to defend against the Others for fairly obvious reasons, namely that the Voice was taxing on his throat.

"Right." Cotter drew out sarcastically, clearly not believing him. "In any case, if ye want to know where to find the Lord Commander and Jon Snow, then I recommend heading to Craster's Keep. It's a fortified village, about a ten day's ride north-by-northeast of here. It's most likely where they first stopped on their ranging."

"Who runs the town." Anslaf asked.

"A particularly nasty wildling known as Craster, hence the name." Cotter replied. "Sick old fuck, from what I've heard. Take my advice, don't stick around too long his keep. Just ask yer questions and get out, cause with yer armor ye'd look like one o' us to him."

"Craster doesn't like Night's Watch, I take it?" The Blackwolf inquired.

"None of the wildlings do, though Craster is far more tolerable of us than most of the ploughing savages." Cotter spat. It seemed to Anslaf that there was no love lost between the Wildings and the Night's Watch.

The Blackwolf got up. "I thank you for your help, sir. With your permission, I'd like to rest for the night as your guest. We will leave tomorrow at dawn."

"Think nothing of it." Cotter waved. "And I ain't bout to start breaking the sacred laws of hospitality now. Drowned God will curse me if I do."

With that, both Anslaf and Melisandre bowed to the man, then turned and walked out the door. They walked in silence till they reached the guest hall. It was then the fire priestess spoke up.

"Things seem to be just as bad as we've feared, my lord."

Anslaf couldn't help but agree. If even the defenders of the realm were doubtful or even dismissal of the White Walkers' return, then it did not bode well for the fate of Westeros or the world.

"I agree, but finding Jon takes priority right now. After we've found him and trained him to his fullest potential, we can set about providing evidence for the doubting lords of Westeros."

"How?" The priestess asked in honest sincerity.

"I don't know." Anslaf answered truthfully. "Perhaps we could capture a White Walker, though it would be no simple feat, let alone an easy one."

Melisandre said nothing, only nodding and walking off toward the fireplace, presumably to commune with Meridia on their next course of action. Anslaf himself trudged off toward the guest bedrooms, where he picked a room, took off his armor and weapons, and laid down on the bed, determined to get some rest before supper with the black brothers that night.

And prayed that he could find Jon, soon.

* * *

**A/N: Another chapter down!**

**Now, for those of you wondering why I decided for Eddard and Stannis to give Erik a lordship and lands, the answer is simpler than you think.**

**Back in Medieval Europe and before, and in the Middle East in the present day, the rulers of the land didn't hand out property and titles based on merit or the will of the people. Rather, they handed out lands and ranks based on familial ties and close friendships. Since Erik had proved himself time and time again to be loyal to the House of Stark, it would only be natural for Eddard to reward such loyalty in one of the few ways a Lord can. Now, make no mistake, Erik is **_**very**_** inexperienced when it comes to matters of Lordship, and this will come into play later with the Greyjoys.**

**For the matter of Gaunter O'Dimm, many of you have guessed correctly that Cyric's arc is based off of the Witcher 3 DLC Hearts of Stone. I also wanted to expand upon the relationship between Elerand and Anslaf. No, I'm not spoiling anything yet. ;)**

**As for Melisandre, her accompanying Anslaf will greatly change events in the south. How? I cannot say yet, only that they will.**

**Till next time!**


	24. Vengeance and Justice

**Eddard**

**20****th**** Frostfall, 204 4E/298 AL**

* * *

_Green boys._

Eddard shook his head at the corpses littering the former Lannister campsite, near the village of Oxcross. These Westerlander boys were not men, used to the hardships of war and winter, but green summer boys, many barely experiencing their fourteenth or fifteenth namedays, and almost none would have known the love of a woman or the adoration of their children.

Now, very few of these Lannister boys will.

The battle was the brainchild of his son, whom had scouted out a goat trail that bypassed the Golden Tooth. And to Eddard's admiration, Robb's plan went off without almost any hitch.

Stafford Lannister, whom had assumed himself safe deep inside the Westerlands- a mere three days ride from Lannisport- did not suspect a thing when the Stark host attacked during the night, and neglected to post sentries, much to the chagrin of Daven Lannister, his son.

Bolton men first cut the ropes securing the Lannister horses, then a howl from Grey Wind spooked the steeds into stampeding the camp, trampling many of the levies as the horses fled the direwolf. After that, Robb had led a cavalry charge into the camp itself, while Eddard maneuvered the infantry into cutting off any organized retreat by the Lannister forces. The battle- or skirmish, more accurately- had been a resounding success, as the Starks had scattered or captured the remaining enemy reserves, and now plans were being drawn up to capture the now lightly defended castles and holdfasts of the Westerlands.

"A stunning victory, my lord, thanks to you and your son." Roose Bolton was saying to him as they were walking the battlefield. "Five Lannister dead to every one of ours. But we have nowhere to keep all these prisoners, and we barely have enough food to feed our own men."

"I'm not about to start massacring prisoners, Lord Bolton." Eddard warned tersely.

"Of course, my Lord." Roose conceded. "But many of these prisoners are highborn officers, and some of them could be privy to Tywin Lannister's plans."

"Not likely." Eddard countered. "Tywin is half a continent away in Harrenhal, cut off from the Westerlands and with the Imperials closing in for the kill. Besides, Lord Tywin's not the type to tell these men sensitive information."

"We'll learn soon enough." Roose began, before Eddard cut him off.

"I needn't hasten to remind you that flaying has been outlawed in the North." Ned warned his vassal, his tone becoming icier.

The underlying threat was made clear to Roose, who said nothing and instead nodded to Eddard, before turning and walking back to the command tent for the briefing that day. Ned shook his head and turned his attention back to the field before him, as healers were attending to the wounded, and silent sisters to the dead. One poor chap had to get his leg amputated due to him ignoring a wound that had grown infected. Another was given the mercy of a dagger after it was determined that he would die slowly and painfully from internal bleeding.

The Warden of the North grimaced. He had prayed that after the Rebellion and the Greyjoy war, he would have never had to see such a site again. Fate and Destiny, however, were harsh mistresses.

He was shaken out of his musings, however, when his son approached him and embraced him.

"You did well, son." He said as he broke from the embrace.

"You exaggerate, father. If it weren't for you, this plan wouldn't have been near as successful." Robb smiled, and waved his hand around for effect.

"Perhaps." Was all Eddard said as they began walking towards the command tent. "Still no word from Theon, I take it?"

At that, Ned saw his eldest son's face darken. "Nay. Not so much as a whisper."

Ned felt his face form into a frown. It seems his decision to send the lords whom held the western coast home to reinforce their keeps was turning out to be the correct one, after all. So far, however, he had not heard of any Ironborn raids on the coast, as of yet.

_They must be planning something big, indeed._

He didn't say anything as they walked into the command tent, not entirely sure how to reassure his son. The matter dropped, however, as they met the other lords, all of them looking grim as could be.

"What is it?" Ned asked the Greatjon, who was fiddling with the lion piece that was placed on Harrenhal's map marker.

"A raven arrived earlier this morning, my lord, from the Imperials." He said, pulling out a piece of paper, marked with the Imperial drake on the back. "It seems Lord Tywin didn't take our bait, and is riding with all haste towards King's Landing." He then slammed the piece down onto the map point representing the capital of Westeros.

"I warned you this wouldn't have worked." Roose spoke up. "Tywin isn't as foolish as to let Decius and Stannis threaten King's Landing whilst he campaigned in the Riverlands, and now that Lord Edmure has effectively cut off Tywin from the Riverlands, he will have no choice now but to reinforce his only remaining stronghold."

"What of the Crowlander lords?" Eddard asked.

"Joffrey has ordered them back to defend King's Landing, from what the Tully scouts report." Rickard Karstark answered his liege. "Although, not very many of them have answered the call. Some have chosen to defect to either King Stannis or Renly, and others are simply sitting in their castles, waiting to choose a side."

"What of the Vale?" Eddard asked, although he felt that he already knew the answer.

"Lysa has still affirmed her neutrality, my lord." The Greatjon spat. "The way she went on about it in the raven's scroll, you'd think that she was going to declare that whelp of hers The King of Mountain and Vale."

"Not an unlikely possibility." Lord Cerwyn grumbled.

"And Dorne?" His son asked them. It was no small secret that out of all of House Lannister's enemies, the Martells were thought to be their greatest.

"I believe the Imperial legate is handling that." Eddard answered him. "I highly doubt that Doran would want to treat with either myself or His Grace, but mayhaps he will be willing to treat with the men who slew his sister's murderer." He turned back to the map. "As for the here and now, we need to secure the Westerlands. I will take our main force and secure Ashemark and the Crag. Lord Bolton, you will take your two thousand men and secure the coast along with Lord Karstark. Lords Umber, Cerwyn, and Horwood will take the castles and mines of Castamere, Nuun's Deep, and the Pendric Hills. Finally, Lord Gregor Forrester will secure the livestock and granaries in the Westerlands to replenish the devastated fields in the southern Riverlands. Once we secure the West, we will descend on Lannisport itself for the final blow." He looked up from the map to gauge the reactions of his lords. "Do any of you have objections?"

"I would leave Lannisport alone, my lord." Roose spoke, ever quietly. "Why waste the manpower on city that will be well defended? Just settle in for a siege, and once the Imperials and Baratheons take care of Tywin, then Kevan will surrender."

"Are you so sure of that?" The Greatjon asked. "The man for all we know might avenge his brother should Tywin be defeated, and continue the fight on his own."

"Regardless, this war will end once Lannisport falls." Eddard declared. "That is all for today, my lords. Prepare your men, and tell them to move out within the week."

As the lords moved out of the tent and to their men, Eddard let his eyes linger on the map a little longer.

_Soon, this damnable war will be over, and we can finally return home, to prepare for the true threat to the north._

Outside the tent, an early autumn breeze picked up a few stray leaves, as the trees around Oxcross began to turn from green to yellow and orange…

* * *

**Oberyn**

**22****nd**** Frostfall**

* * *

If one had only heard of Oberyn Martell, they might have said that he was a philanderer, a warmonger, or a reckless man.

If one had met Prince Oberyn, they would have found the incautious womanizer, true, but they would have also found a culturally sophisticated man who wanted to experience all of what life had to offer.

But the ones who truly _knew _the Red Viper would see the broken, angry man underneath the carefree and wild exterior, weathered by years of fighting and hardened by a desire for revenge against those who murdered his family.

Chief among those would be the Old Lion himself; the man whom ordered his dogs, Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch, to rape and murder his sister and her children, all so he could get on the good side of that now-deceased usurper, Robert.

Hence why he was waiting here in the main solar of Harrenhal, as a guest of the Imperial Ninth Legion, sitting in front of a desk across from a middle-aged, olive-skinned man, whom Oberyn knew to be the legion's general.

"I trust your journey wasn't too arduous, Prince Oberyn?" The general, Decius, asked him politely, as he poured them both a glass of Whiterun vodka.

"Not at all, thank you." He replied as he took the glass and sipped its contents. "Hmmm. Quite the fiery drink, vodka."

"You like it?" Decius inquired. "My second in command introduced it to me while we were still junior officers during the Great War. Told me that this is what the Nords like to drink when they want something stronger than mead or beer, and they look down on anyone who dares not to drink it straight up."

"I can see why." Oberyn japed. "I apologize for Arianne not coming with me. My brother changed his mind at the last minute and decided to keep her close to him to teach her more about ruling Dorne."

"You don't have to apologize, my friend. As long as someone who represents Prince Doran and Dorne came to this meeting, it would make little difference. Now, to the matter at hand." Decius folded his hands in front of him. "I assume you know why we've arranged this chat in the first place."

"Of course I do." Oberyn put down his drink, frowning. "You want my brother and I to declare our support for Stannis Baratheon in his war against the Lannisters and his brother, or, more to the point, lend you our coin and men for usurpers fighting each other."

"Is he not the King of Westeros?" Decius inquired, raising his eyebrow ever slow slightly.

"Depends on who you ask. For myself and Doran, however, no. His family usurped the rightful rulers of this land, the Targaryens." Oberyn answered. "And rest assured, we have not forgotten, nor have we forgiven the rebels."

"Hmm." Decius scoffed. "According to my own recollection of history, your country and house weren't particularly supportive of the regime until about a century ago." He placed his hands down on the desk. "But this isn't about kings, usurpers, or rightful claims to an uncomfortable chair. This is about vengeance. Vengeance, and justice, for your kin, slain at the hands of a man whom thinks himself a mighty lion."

"And you will help us achieve this?" Oberyn snapped back. "How?"

The Red Viper noticed Decius motioning to an aide, who quickly exited the room and returned a moment later, carrying a greatsword and an absurdly large greathelm. His eyes widened in recognition of the fist on top of the helm.

"Our first of three gifts to you and your family, my prince. The sword and helm of Ser Gregor Clegane, the man whom butchered your sister and nephew, slain on the field of battle by my second in command." Decius offered, having the items placed on the desk before him.

Oberyn couldn't speak for a better part of a minute, only being able to reach a now-shaking hand out and touch the items, a tear running down his face as his fingers traced the lines in Gregor's sword; his breath shuttering as he remembered Elia's maimed and broken body being delivered to them as an 'apology'. He concentrated so much on the equipment of the fallen enemy that he did not see Decius motion to his aide again, who exited the room and stayed out for a bit longer this time.

"I apologize that you were not able to kill him yourself." The legate offered, his voice sorrowful. "However, I wish to make it up to you with my second gift, and I'm sure this one you will appreciate all the more."

At that moment, two legionaries stepped into the solar, shoving a short, ugly man in front of them, covered in rags and filth.

"Prince Oberyn, allow me to present Ser Amory Lorch, the man who killed your niece." Decius exclaimed, while he got up and waved his hand toward Lorch.

For his part, Oberyn walked over to the murderer of Rhaenys, his sweet beautiful little niece. Where he experienced great sadness moments before, now he could only feel a burning inferno threatening to escape.

"A hundred times, he stabbed her." Oberyn seethed in barely contained fury. "A hundred times over, because this pig-fucker wanted her to stop screaming, or so I've heard from my sources." He continued to look at the monster, who cowered in terror at the malicious rage burning in Oberyn's eyes. "He will receive what he did to my sweet niece a thousand fold. I want to see when he stops screaming, as poison courses through his veins and devours his flesh from within. If only Gregor were alive to receive the same…" He trailed off as he cupped Amory's face, who promptly proceeded to soil himself. Oberyn looked over his shoulder to Decius.

"I assume that I will be allowed to take him with me to Sunspear? I'm sure Doran would love to join in on our fun." Oberyn asked, already starting to savor the imagined sounds of Amory's slow, antagonized death.

"Yes. He is a gift, and you are free to do with him as you wish." Decius waved, and the legionaries took Amory back to the dungeon to await transport. "Speaking of gifts, I have yet to say what your third gift will be."

Oberyn walked back over to the desk and put his hands on the table. "Alright, what?"

It was at this Decius broke into a slight smirk, the one that would let most observant men know that he had the Red Viper hook, line, and sinker. "Tywin Lannister himself, the man responsible for ordering the death of your family during the Sack of King's Landing all those years ago. I will give him to you when we take King's Landing, together." Decius got up, and pointed to the map of King's Landing hanging behind him. "The Lord of Casterly Rock has blundered. All he had to do was wait us out while he still held Harrenhal, and let our assault flounder against these strong stone walls. Instead, he has tucked his tail between his legs and retreated to King's Landing to fortify the city. He thinks he is safe, now, but the lion has only succeeding in trapping himself. Already Lord Stark is cutting off Tywin's reinforcements in the Westerlands, and Stannis is currently in the Stormlands to parley with his brother." He walked to the table and leaned on it. "So, Prince Oberyn, let me ask you this; will you join us and take your vengeance? Or will you and Doran continue to sulk in Sunspear while revenge slips from your grasp?

Oberyn took a moment to consider his options. On the one hand, his enemies were all present in one spot, ripe for the kill. On the other, Doran would be displeased with him for not sticking to the plan and waiting for Daenerys to sail across the Narrow Sea.

He wrestled with his thoughts, torn between his desire for vengeance and loyalty to his brother. In the end though, only one thing mattered. Only one thing that could finally bring peace to his troubled mind and perhaps cure his brother of his depression.

His choice was clear.

The Red Viper, champion of a hundred arena battles, warrior-poet, and lover of both man and woman, looked at the most brilliant mind the Empire had ever produced, and spoke with such utter clarity and authority that there would be no doubt as to where his country's allegiance now lay.

"The spears of Dorne are yours."

* * *

**Anslaf**

**One week later**

* * *

_Disgusting_

If Anslaf had to sum up his feelings towards Craster so far, that word would have made the top of the list, followed by 'rude' as a close second. And he was fairly certain Melisandre had other words in mind for him, namely 'infidel'.

The reason he had chosen the term for the supposedly 'friendly' Wilding- or Free Man, as the old, grey bearded man had pointed out rather scathingly- was due to the fact that each one of his wives were also his daughters, and supposedly all his sons were taken out back and slaughtered. The fact that the Night's Watch grudgingly tolerated his behavior in exchange for information could indeed be seen as a necessary evil, but in Anslaf's opinion, it didn't mean he had to tolerate it as well.

_The sooner we find where the ranging went off to, the better._ Anslaf thought as Craster droned on. By the time his company had arrived at the keep, the ranging had already left for parts unknown.

"This is all well and good that you've managed to keep the Walkers at bay for so long." Anslaf interrupted, tired of his boasting about being the only man keeping the Walkers out from the 'kneelers' kingdoms. "But if we could get back on track, sir. My companions and I need to know where the ranging headed off to."

"I heard you squawkin' the first time, ya damned crow." Craster snapped. "Always the same with you lot. 'When can we expect this? Where is this bloody mule? When can ya suck me cock?' Blah blah blah!" He spat.

Anslaf rubbed his temples in frustration. "For the last time, _sir_, I'm not a member of the Night's Watch. I simply want to know where Lord Commander Mormont and his party went-."

"I heard you the first eighty-seven fucking times!" Craster yelled. "Now if you would be so kind and quit interrupting a man in his own home, I was just about to tell you." He took a gulp of mead from his mug and set it down. "They're at the Fist of the First Men."

"The Fist? Where's that?" Anslaf asked.

"About another twelve days north of here, on foot, ten on horse. Big, steep hill with a ringwall at the top, can't miss it. Well, that is, if you ain't blind."

"I'm sure we'll manage." Anslaf retorted sharply. "Well, it appears we must be going. I'd thank you for the food and shelter you've given us, but I'm sure you'd understand if we just left you and your…wives, and went on our merry way."

Craster snarled, though one could see a grim smile underneath the proud anger. "Then let our paths never cross again, whelp."

"I don't intend for them to." Anslaf simply replied, and left the keep with his companions. Once they were outside and packing up the horses, however, he heard Melisandre quietly curse.

"Heretic!"

"What?" Anslaf asked, confused on where this outburst came from.

"I know whom that creature sacrifices his sons to, though he will say it not." She seethed under her breath. "I know the supposed 'gods' he worships."

Anslaf furrowed his brow for a second, then it dawned on him, followed by his bile rising up to his throat.

_So that's how he's been "keeping" the Walkers away? By sacrificing his own sons to them and their master?_

"How did you learn of this?" He whispered to her, as not to be heard by one of Craster's wives.

"One of the women, Gilly, told me this. She said that he takes the sons deep into the Haunted Forest to be taken by the Enemy. What they do with those boys, only God knows, but the way they talk about it…" she trailed off.

"Whatever they're doing with those boys, it can't bode well." He looked back over to the stables. "We ride for the Fist of the First Men in about an hour, and it looks like we have a long journey ahead of us."

"But what of Craster?" She asked.

"We can't concern ourselves with him right now. All that remains is that we find the ranging party, which will lead us to Jon Snow." He replied, but then looked at the keep. "But if we do end up encountering Craster again, I don't intend for the bastard to live." He finished, intending on ending the old, unstable Wildling should he ever cross paths with him again.

As Anslaf and his company rode off an hour later, he looked to the north, and saw an outline of dark grey, almost black clouds, on the far horizon. They seemed to sit still for now, but Anslaf figured that it had to be some foul magic of the White Walkers and their dark lord, and that it would be only a matter of time before those clouds would roll out from the Land of Always Winter, and shroud the rest of Nirn in darkness.

He quietly spurred his horse forward, intent on reaching Jon Snow in time. For if he failed, the world would fall.

And he wasn't about to fail…

**A/N: Here I am again! Just finished up Season 6 of Game of Thrones, and man, what a show! Jon's back and King in the North, to boot, House Stark has reclaimed Winterfell, Benjen is back, the Hound is back and joining the Brotherhoood, Cersei has become the Mad Queen, and Daenerys is finally leaving Essos for good. And on top of all that, R+L=J HAS BEEN CONFIRMED BY THE SHOW!**

**Now, for those of you wondering why I took so long with this chapter; I'm about to start a new full time job, and possibly move to either McPherson or Hutchinson, Kansas, which means I would be a lot closer to home. It also means I'm getting a pay raise for my work, which means more money to spend on the things I want. :D**

**And as a final note; All hail Jon Stark, the White Wolf, the King in the North!**


End file.
